


the rest I can do without

by orphan_account



Category: One Direction (Band), Zayn Malik (Musician)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Batman, Angst, Childhood Friends, Liam as Nightwing, POV Alternating, Pining, Smut, Violence, Zayn as Red Hood, a bit of cat-and-mouse games too, just a bunch of pining and feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-17
Updated: 2016-07-17
Packaged: 2018-07-24 14:34:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 64,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7512001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Silence greets him.  He jerks his head up, looking around like a frightened animal.  Zayn’s not there anymore.  Another trick, via Paul Higgins.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Of course.  It’s not as if his life isn’t filled with ghosts, right?</i>
</p><p>(For most of his life, Liam's wanted out of Gotham―to shed his Nightwing costume for something else.  To have a <i>normal</i> life.  Zayn wants revenge―and a bit of redemption, too.  Secretly, they've wanted each other most of their lives, too.  It's a shame murder and Gotham City keeps getting in their way.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	the rest I can do without

**Author's Note:**

> _For Ashley―thank you for teaching me the meaning behind_ 'why do we fall?' _and for all the random chats about Zayn as Red Hood_.
> 
> Hello lovelies! Long time, right?
> 
> First, huge thanks to Ashley for texting me while I was driving to the airport one afternoon with this idea (and artwork) of Zayn as Red Hood. This went south quickly, trust me. I've always wanted to write another comic book-related piece. And thanks to [here4zayn](http://here4zayn.tumblr.com) and [Jesse](http://jessekarger.tumblr.com/) for the amazing artwork to go with this fic. This fic was a mild idea back in March that took close to five months to create. Please be kind, okay?
> 
>  **WARNING:** There's some violence in here. Talk of death, too. If you're up to it, keep reading. Also, if you're not familiar with the Batman universe―no biggie. This fic is still hopefully enjoyable on other levels. But if you'd like a primer on [Nightwing](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dick_Grayson) and [Red Hood](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jason_Todd) to help you follow along... I tried to make it pretty simple to understand.
> 
> Also, after 80+ tunes helping me through this, here's a [playlist](http://8tracks.com/jmcats/the-rest-i-can-do-without-playlist) to listen to while reading.
> 
> This is my first time dipping my toes back into fic writing after being away for months on a lovely journey. I thought about posting this in chapters as it was not supposed to be so epic but... that's not very jamcats now, is it? Settle in kiddies―enjoy the ride!
> 
> Title taken from **"Somebody Else"** by the 1975

 

 

 _“Love and death are two uninvited guests.  Nobody knows when they come, but both do the same work.  One takes the heart and the other takes its beat.”_  
**Unknown**

 

 

 

**Liam**

 

It’s raining in Gotham City.  A steady downpour from an army of angry grey clouds hung low in the sky.  It washes what dying color is left in this city.  Bullets of rain drip down onto the grave he’s standing over.  They sliver imprecisely down the headstone―

_Paul Higgins._

Liam swallows shallowly.  Carelessly, he drags a hand over his face, scrubbing the rain away.  Paddy was right―he should’ve brought an umbrella.  Not that he minds the constant plink of fresh raindrops down his face.  It’s weirdly cleansing.

He fists his hands into the collar of his jacket, tugging it closer.  It’s a cold, cruel rain adding to the frostiness of it all.

But Liam doesn’t care.

Because Paul Higgins is dead.

The Batman is dead.

A flash of lightning streaks the ash grey clouds.  It lights up what’s left of a dying, vulnerable city.

Her hero is dead and buried.

Liam sighs.  His eyes scan over the headstone until he knows each letter by heart.  No one visits Paul’s grave.  Only him; sometimes Paddy.  There was a rich outpouring of visitors (more like _gawkers_ ) on the day of the funeral.  A city of posh pretenders, all feigning tears and misery as if they cared more about Paul as a human rather than his money.  It was disgusting.

All petite noises and a parade of black.  Typical Gotham socialite behavior.  Liam’s certain Paul would’ve hated every second of it.

Another flare of lightning bites at the sky, feasting on the clouds.  The thunder vibrates like a lion’s yawn before the hunt.  Storms in Gotham are moody adolescents, seconds from turning angry and violent before weeping away for a few hours.  This hovering storm feels like an in-between―the grunts of thunder and the promise of something fierce.

He reckons, absently, it’s the sort of weather Paul loved best.

Liam turns his head from the soaked headstone.  His eyebrows pull together, accentuating the frown wadding on his mouth.  There’s still not enough clues on who killed Batman.  What finally did him in.  Which of Paul’s mountain of enemies finally drew the longest straw and knocked him off.  Just an empty casket six feet below.  A dozen headlines paving the streets of Gotham.

There’s enough evidence, enough of Paul’s DNA left in the rubble left behind from the explosion that Liam _knows_.

He knows this is one fight Batman didn’t walk away from with a few broken bones.

“Bloody idiot,” Liam sighs to the muddy soil.  He sniffs.  Something heavy and wet is beginning to line his eyes.

Liam will not cry.

A month has passed and he still has not cried.  It’s a practiced art―restraining emotions.  Years of ripping the heart off his sleeve (and scalding words from Paul about leaving his feelings at home) taught him not to cry.

Not unless the salt of his tears would save his life.

(Today wasn’t one of those days.)

Like an epidemic, the whispers spread.  It’s as if every scrummy crook and high-stakes criminal senses the Batman is gone.  There’s no fear left in Gotham.  Not much, at least.

The bodies are starting to pile up.  Dead cops.  Informants.  A collection of small-time mob bosses; none huge enough to make a dent but enough to shake things up.  Someone new is making a name for themselves in this city.  Refusing to choose sides; killing mindlessly.  The blood smeared across the walls is a calling card―

Gotham City is a bedlam of madness now.

“That’s not your fault, right?” Liam sneers.  The headstone doesn’t answer back.

Clearing his throat, Liam’s lips dip into a renewed frown.  The thunder rumbles like a rioting orchestra.  A cacophony all around him.

It does just enough to drown out his thoughts.  They’re so loud lately.  He doesn’t have enough motivation ( _not yet_ ) to run away from them.  But he needs a distraction.  Anything to lower the volume in his head.

He refuses to wear the cowl.  He won’t put on the cape.  Liam will not become what Gotham _thinks_ it needs.  And Harry―bless him.  He’s still too young to take care of himself or this shit-pile of a city.  There’s already one Robin swallowing dirt because of the scum Gotham breeds.

Still, Liam never wanted to be Batman.  A bit silly, innit?  Years chasing behind a hero and Liam can’t imagine himself tugging on Paul’s boots to finish the job.

In fact, he just wants to finish university.  Find a way out of Gotham.  A fresh start.

But Paul didn’t raise him to think that way.  _Suit up; save lives_.

Gotham needs a protector.

Sirens shriek in the distance.  Louder than the thunder.  Haunting wails in the night.  Gotham’s only voice and no one in this damn city listens to it.

Liam shivers.  A cold breeze licks at his shoulders, burning a redness across his ears.  He always hears the sirens, the cries for help in his dreams.  Night after night, he can’t escape them.  He always answers their calls.

He doesn’t remember what it was like to be young and not hear their voices.

“Bloody hell.”  His shoulders drop, defeated.  They can’t handle the weight.

The sirens rage louder, closer.

He’s wearing his kit under his civilian clothes.  Of course he is.  Always prepared.  His mask is in his jacket pocket.  His motorcycle is a few feet off the cemetery carpark.  He’ll cut on his com-link on the walk back, wait for Oracle to give him a location and details.  Liam will do his _job_.

Gotham needs a protector―

But Liam isn’t certain it needs to be him.

 

+++

 

**Zayn**

 

The plinking rain doesn’t bother Zayn.  He loves the rain.  Tangy metallic taste of it when he licks his lips.  The thrill of cold it shifts down his spine when he’s standing in it too long.  It drips down over his face, clouding his vision.  Rain makes this city a blurred, bearable sight.  At peace.

Maybe the rain washes away sins, too.

Even under the smoggy halo of evening storms, Gotham has its own glow.  It is tinged artificial gold and muddy caramel.  A blot of brown in the constant grey.  Strips of neon trace the streets like veins, blurring off the buildings.  The belly of it all is polluted with police sirens and the shouts of a never-sleeping city.

Zayn watches from his favorite perch―the rooftops.

He sucks in a breath of smoke from his cigarette.  It’s an awful habit.  He doesn’t plan to quit.  The tips of his fringe fall in his eyes―pale white strands of hair.  That constant reminder that he’s still a bit undead.

Well, one of a few reminders.  The autopsy scar, jagged and ugly, running down his chest and belly is his favorite.  But the white bits in his dark hair unsettles him best.

It’s a _‘Merry fucking Christmas Zayn’_ from this beloved city.  Fucking Gotham City.  Thanks for the memories.

He glares down at a metropolis on fire.  There’s not an inch of sympathy in his bones.

 _Paul is dead_ ―Zayn always knew it would happen.  As invincible as Paul seemed, Zayn knew he’d fall.  He was careless with his enemies.  He never used enough force.  His healthy helping of justice came with a slap on the wrist and too many opportunities for bloodthirsty criminals.  Pathetic sod.

It’s a shame Zayn didn’t have the pleasure of watching Paul put in the ground.

But the truth is… Zayn doesn’t know _who_ killed the Batman.  There aren’t enough clues.  No body of evidence.

In his mind, Zayn is certain it’s this city that did Paul in.  All of its people looking for a savior.  A protector.  And Paul’s constant need to carry that badge like it was his own.  The Batman was a curse, not a cure.

Quietly, the rain turns into slivers across the surface of Gotham.  Cold, wet dripping like a leaking faucet.

Zayn takes another meditative pull from his ciggy.  The nicotine heats in his lungs, drying out his throat.  It creates a nice fog in his brain―the kind of toxic sensation that destroys brain cells.  He doesn’t need to think.  But he does, anyway.  Stupid habit, he muses.

He never wanted to be the Batman.  Actually, for a fleeting five seconds when he first tugged on that silly Robin costume and watched Paul sail from rooftop to rooftop without looking down, he _did_.  It was brief―like Zayn’s go at being some goofy sidekick.

But there wasn’t a hint of Paul’s influence left in him.  Zayn only wanted to learn from him―so he could survive a little longer.  It’s all most reckless, gutter punks from Gotham’s streets could do: _survive_.

The corner of his mouth quirks a little as the madness starts to break out down below.  Another night of mayhem.  A city turning to ash on one man’s death.  A riot of violence glowing like a rave.  The streets belong to mobsters again.

And the Batman is dead.

Zayn knows that feeling.  Intimately.  Sometimes, he can still taste the acid of the Lazarus Pit at the back of his throat.  It’s like swallowing a mouthful of glass and vodka.  An unwelcome heat in his belly.  He hopes Paul made peace with himself before someone finally offed him.

Because there’s no peace in Zayn.

Below, in a rundown building across from him, Zayn eyes a handful of perps holding an office suite hostage.  It’s hardly a financial refuge, the building, with its poor construction and piss-poor lighting.  The sort of place probably doing small-time insurance bids rather than hauling in thousands of pounds daily.

Hardly worth the effort of an all-out hostage situation, Zayn considers.

Still, he surveys the scene like he always does―excitement arousing acid in his belly.

Small firearms are aimed at wrinkled suits and whimpering women in their business attire.  The bleeding shine of patrol cars from the street.  Misty, light drizzle still coming down makes everything look like red stars from this view.  Some idiot safeguarding the windows with a gun too heavy for his arms keeps peeking about.  Just a handful of small-time criminals trying to make a name for themselves, probably.

Everyone in this mucky city wants to be remembered.

Bloody fucking idiots, the whole lot of them.

Zayn sighs.  He doesn’t bother finishing his cigarette.  There’s enough adrenaline in his system to replace the high of tobacco tonight.  He stubs it out in a puddle.  Cracking his neck, he tugs his two favorite Glock 26s from his chest holster.  The cops are scrambling below, mapping out a route that’ll get them all killed.

“Leave it to the professionals, dicks,” Zayn mumbles.

Releasing the safety, he narrows his eyes on the perps.  Six.  It’s an easy night for him.

The rain whispers a lullaby over the city.  He zones out the noise.  It’s a comforting lie he can’t afford.  He slips on his red helmet―it’s a trademark.

Gotham City might not remember Zayn Malik.

But they’ll damn well remember the Red Hood.

 

+++

 

For him, being alive feels like suffocating.  A constant cold hand wrapped around his throat.  A clumsy, meaningless existence now that he’s had a taste of death.

But _this_?  Moments like this felt like freefalling―easy as breathing.

Zayn doesn’t have to put much effort into timing his jump.  He refuses to tiptoe the ledge, planning the perfect jump.  It’s a freefall.  A hit or miss.  Zayn took scarier flights into the night when he was younger.  When Paul was there, just in case he fell too hard.

The impact of his body shatters the glass window.  A clean break, he thinks.  He takes out two perps with three bullets before his feet even touch the shoddy carpeting of the office suite.

Energy rushes through him.  A spitfire of adrenaline that keeps his senses alert, licking at his nerves.  Zayn gets a tumbling-running start.  He skids his feet, ducks and bends to avoid a few bullets shot at him.  He’s catching these wankers off-balance and he thinks that’s unfair.

They stood a better chance knowing he was coming.

Hooking an arm around one of the perp’s neck, he twists his full weight, snapping the guy’s neck.  He throttles the next bloke’s face with the end of his gun before the previous lad drops dead on the carpet.  A close-range headshot smears blood across the sleeve of his leather jacket.

 _Shit_.

That’ll be bloody fun to scrub out later, he muses.

“Take him down!”

Zayn smirks behind his mask.  The fifth perp is some tall, steroid-juiced maniac.  He goes for hand-to-hand combat.  The bleeding idiot.  Zayn takes a few fists to the ribs, the constant thudding dull, for the fun of it.  For the throb he’ll feel later.  Or maybe just to taunt this bloke into thinking he has a chance.

A smile curls the corners of Zayn’s mouth.

“Are you done?”

He doesn’t wait for the bruiser to respond.  Zayn catches the next swing at his chest, breaking his assailant’s arm in two places.  His howl drowns out the noise of Zayn’s laugh.  For the fuck of it, Zayn cracks a few ribs, too.  He adds a boot to the abdomen, knocking this arsehole to half the size.  Zayn’s knuckles connect with his jaw, shifting it out of place, toppling the giant.

Two bullets to the chest ends it properly.

Zayn studies all the firearm on the floor.  It’s cheap.  He hates poorly-made arsenals smuggled into his district.  It makes him look bad.

“Put the bloody fucking gun down and get on the floor!”

Zayn’s smile stretches like a kid glowing at Christmas.  Right.  _The sixth guy_.

“Sorry for the trouble,” he mumbles.  Dropping the gun to placate the bloke, Zayn lifts his hands in his air.  Crosses them behind his head, for the added effect.  Surrendering seems appropriate, right?

“I said get down―”

Seconds.  Zayn counts them in his head.  Since he came back―to Gotham, to this world, from the grave―he knows seconds is all he has to live by.  Not fleeting moments or big dreams.  There’s no fast-forward to the future for him.  Just measly seconds.  Usually, he doesn’t waste them.

“If your plan is to make the morning news,” Zayn grins, taking a peek over his shoulder, “then you’ve done a shit job.  They don’t usually give names to the chalk outlines, bro.”

“Shut the fuck up!”

Feisty.  Those are always the most amusing.  Zayn’s smiles reaches up into his eyes.

“You stupid, useless, crime-fighting―”

Zayn rolls his eyes.  How many times has he heard one of these speeches?  Since he was some thirteen year old punk in a costume?  He’s not in it to make this city any safer.

Just the small section of streets he calls home.

“―all of you cape-wearing, Batman clones…”

Something tightens in Zayn’s chest.  It claws its way in, burying itself in Zayn’s skin.  The heat prickles up his arms, deep in his chest.  His scowl edges out all the features of his face.

After all of this time, there’s still one trigger for Zayn―

 _He’s not the Batman_.

And then the seconds die away.  Quick, harmless like taking a breath.  Zayn turns, barreling across the room, ignoring the first erratic bullet that whirs past his shoulder.  The second shot clips his arm, right through his leather jacket.  Adrenaline numbs the pain.

He’ll nick a new jacket off some stylish hipster tomorrow.

The gunman isn’t prepared.  Bruised knuckles slam into the tosser’s jaw, a satisfying crack echoing in this space.  Zayn ducks a poorly-timed swing.  He goes for the ribs, breaking another set of bones.  Zayn knees him, adds a gut-check for proper measure.  His elbows frees the gun from a loose grip but Zayn doesn’t need it.

Close-combat.  One-on-one.  Zayn gets a thrill from this.  One of those rare things Paul taught him.  Leveling an opponent on even ground is more satisfying, though he doubts Paul meant it for this.

 _Disarm your opponent; don’t kill them_.

Zayn never got the theatrics of that.  Why give your enemy the opportunity to come back and kill you later?  They _always_ come back.  With more guns.  A loaded reason to off you.

Not on his watch, though.

“Pease, please―”

Zayn ignores the plea.  It’s a counterfeit attempt at forgiveness.  Instead, he boots the perp out one of the office windows.  Six-stories down.  Turning away from the shattered glass, Zayn swears he can hear the second the bloke’s squirming body thuds into something.  Patrol car, probably.  It doesn’t matter.

Zayn holsters his guns.  He shakes off the throb in his arm, not even bothering to stop the bleeding.  Fashioning a tourniquet is the first thing he learned in the field.

Around him, the hostages are properly losing their shit.  Pleading for mercy.  Trying to climb and crawl over glass and blood.  It’s a bit comedic, in his twisted head, of course.

Behind his mask, he smirks.  Another bloody easy night.

“Jesus, they’re all dead.”  One of the hostages looks right horrified.

Zayn shrugs.  The bullet cutting into his arm leaves one shoulder limp.  He wipes at the sleeve of his jacket, sighing.

“S’ppose so.”

“How could you―”

Zayn doesn’t want to hear the rest.  Gratitude comes in some quite hilarious forms.  Unconsciously, his fingertips skim over the red emblem stitched into his Kevlar-lined top.

It’s a bat, large and chunky.  The anti-Batman.

“Aren’t you supposed to―?”

Wetting his lips with the tip of his tongue, Zayn huffs.  The crunch under his boots is loud.  He shifts over to one of the windows, eyeing the beat cops scrambling for backup, calling it in on the radio with overloud voices.  They’ll raid the office soon.  And he needs out of their view.

“You’re just going to leave?”

His shoulder is too numb for another shrug.  “No need to thank me,” he grumbles.  “Assholes.”

There’s an objection on some pale bloke with terrible hair’s mouth.  Zayn waves it off.  He’s out the window, firing a line and swinging off before Gotham’s finest crash into the room.

It’s all survival instinct.  He’s adopted it well.

Zayn feels like deadweight but he keeps moving.  Sticking to the shadows, the rooftops.  Like Paul taught him.  Adapt and move.  Ignore the pain, the blood, all the bruises.

 _Keep moving_.

Zayn just wants to survive long enough to kill whoever decided to kill him the first time around.

 

+++

 

He hates mornings.  The bleeding pools of gold from a Gotham sun always licking at the low orbiting clouds.  The sludge of orange melting away to a metallic blue sky.  There’s still a damp taste of rain in the air.  Ozone and silver.  It’s like a sickening hangover; he can’t quite shake it.

And this bitter mud they call coffee never satisfies him here.

Honestly, Zayn despises every bit of mornings.

But he doesn’t mind them as much, plopped in a plush leather chair behind a sleek mahogany desk.  The view from here is tolerable.  This office doesn’t belong to him―no, he was raised a Gotham runt.  This kind of luxury is built for spoiled, trust-fund twats.  Orphans like Zayn stuck to alleyways and fire escapes.

Zayn’s not even certain what he’d do with all of this _space_.  Damn silver spoons and endless bank accounts lifestyle.

It’s enough of a reason for Zayn to recline in the chair, listening to it groan under his weight.  Kicking his muddy boots up on the desk, he smiles.  It’s a wide, toothy smile, like he’s content.

He drains another cup of shit coffee, lights a cig while he waits.  Staring at the office door isn’t the most boring part of his day.

When it clicks open, Zayn’s lips curl up instantly.  Self-satisfied grin.  He doesn’t think there’s anything better.  He stretches, yawns while muddying up the desk a bit more.  Anything to drain the color right off the face glaring back at him.

Louis stands in the doorway.  Wide-eyed and scowling at once, which is a pretty amazing feat.  It’s the sort of morning wake-up call Zayn doesn’t mind.  He revels in it for a second or two.  A photogenic moment.

“Nice view,” Zayn smirks.

Louis’ seaweed blue eyes turn to slits.  His mouth thins into a hard line.  It’s a trademark.  His pressed grey suit and tie bring out the disdain in his eyes.  A freshly shaven jaw twitches.  He’s cufflinks, slick hair, a tight waistcoat―

Louis Tomlinson, the model crime boss’s son.

Dirty money and hired help.  One of Gotham’s finest twats.

Zayn’s mouth quirks high at the corners.  He’s not hiding his pleasure in digging the muddy heels of his boots into the grain of Louis’ desk.  He’s waiting for a proper reaction from Louis.  Honesty, he should’ve known it’d take a bit more effort on his part.

Louis sighs, unbuttoning his coat one-handed, shutting the door.  Sneering, he rounds the massive desk.

“Fancy a brew?”

“M’good.”  Zayn lifts his takeaway cup of burnt caffeine grinds.

Louis wriggles his eyebrows in acknowledgement.  Breathing evenly, he fixes himself a steaming cuppa.  It reeks of Yorkshire―the only brand Louis will slurp through.  He finds a seat across from Zayn, crossing his legs.  As if he’s a client and this is Zayn’s space.

Instantly, Louis looks bored with Zayn.  The lad has a flair for the dramatics.

“You’re like a ghost, y’know,” Louis comments after his first sip.  “And not a very friendly one.  Not like Casper.  You’re horrible, mate.”

Zayn sniffs.  He barrels through the dregs of his coffee.

“Cops can’t ID you.  No one knows who the bloody _fuck_ this Red Hood is and,” Louis pauses.  Another pretentious sip of tea.  “You left a mess of bodies all over one of me dad’s offices.”

“That one his?” Zayn wonders, uninterested.

“In need of a fresh coat of paint and posher furniture, but yes,” Louis preens, goading Zayn with his smile.

“Cut the bullshit.”

Louis barely flinches at Zayn’s tone.  Falls neatly back into a flippant expression.  But his eyebrows shift up invitingly.

“They were in my neighborhood,” Zayn scowls.  “Were they a pack of your father’s thugs?”

“On his _own_ property?” Louis questions.  He sounds indifferent.

“That arsehole father of yours doesn’t own anything in my area.”

Louis tuts gently.  Again, he sips coolly, his brow fixed into a wrinkle.  “Let’s not be rude,” he warns.  There’s not enough conviction in his voice.  “He might not be much of a paternal figure, but let’s not forget how much of Gotham he’s bought―”

“Stolen,” Zayn quips.

“―despite how _useless_ this city is,” Louis continues with an eye roll.

Zayn kicks his feet off the desk.  He leans over it, elbows jammed into the wood.

“Did they work for him or not?”

Louis scoffs.  There’s a small bit of hair out of place.  He dawdles while fixing it.  Louis finishes his tea before replying, “He has no time for petty criminals.  Or _you_.”

A vengeful smile tugs at Louis’ lips.  He’s viciously cheeky and overconfident.  Zayn remembers being like that.

Exhaling restlessly, Louis adds, “Why bother with droll idiots needing a few hundred pounds when my father is trying to burn Gotham to the ground, one business after the other?”

Zayn cocks an eyebrow at him.  Flopping back into the chair, he knocks one boot back onto the desk.  Zayn tugs a Glock free from its holster.  The morning sun glints off the metal like an artificial star.

Louis hardly looks threatened.

Sighing, Zayn reloads his gun.  Clicks the safety on and off.  It catches with a snick every time.  The noise is comforting―like a desperate man’s lullaby.

Louis waves a dismissive hand at him.  “Is it true what they say―”

Zayn narrows his eyes.  He knows the question before it lifts off Louis’ candy pink lips.  It’s in all the papers and on every gutter-licking thief’s mouth.

“Is the Bat dead?”

Zayn sniffs.  He ignores Louis’ words.  Absently, he doesn’t to look Louis in the eyes.  Every other second of his day he has to remind himself Paul is gone.  It’s like some bad acid trip.  A chloroform dream.

“ _So_ ,” Louis sneers.  “The rumors must be true.”

Zayn spins his gun on the desk.  It scratches the neatly glossed surface.  One-handed Russian roulette, he imagines.

“True or not,” Zayn grunts, “I don’t need Batman to protect what’s mine.”

There’s a punctuation in his warning.  A finality.  Full-stop.

Leaning back, Louis laughs.  It’s a sticky, high-pitched noise.

Zayn hates it like he hates mornings in Gotham.

“Bin it.”

“Gotham isn’t anyone’s.  She’s her own beast.”  Louis fixes Zayn with an almost reverent look.  “And one day, I’ll tame her.”

Zayn huffs out a chuckle this time.  Louis has steel bullocks.  He wears trousers too big for his own good.  Perpetually trying to impress daddy, of course.

Truthfully, Zayn wouldn’t know the feeling.

“How will you do that?” Zayn wonders.  “With dirty cops and buying off every arsehole ‘round the city?”

Louis shrugs.  A hint of smugness fades.  “What’s _your_ plan?”

Zayn’s mouth twitches.  He pushes limp white fringe from his eyelashes and cocks his gun.  It’s the only answer he ever needs to give.

“Ah, yes,” Louis sighs.  He re-crosses his legs.  “The end-all, innit?”

“Solves a lot of problems.”

“Quite the impressive body count last night.”

“They were a waste of space.”  Out of habit, Zayn chews down on his lower lip.  Regrets weren’t something he could afford on the streets, before Paul took him in.  “I left one alive for Gotham’s PD to question.”

Louis licks his canines.  “Did you learn that from the Bat?”

Zayn jerks out of the chair.  His reflexes are livelier than they were before.  Louis doesn’t have a second to flinch.  The barrel of the gun is already pressed to his temple.

“You don’t know a thing about me,” Zayn snarls.  “Not a damn thing.  So shut your gob.”  He’s seething, breathing like his lungs can’t pull in enough oxygen.  His finger plays with the trigger, all of his muscles flexing to find relief.

Louis puckers his lips.  Carelessly, with two fingers, he brushes the gun away from his skin.

It’s something they both share―they’ve seen enough death to feel the cold comfort of it rather than fearing it.

“I know I’m your only ally,” he comments.  “S’why you don’t add me to your string of dead crime bosses, right?”

Judiciously, Zayn schools his face.  He’s not letting Louis in his head.  Louis might be right―in a city where Zayn was a walking ghost, Louis is the only one he lets close enough to see his scars.  Not that he would admit it.

They weren’t mates.

But there is a strange amount of trust between them.

Louis knows Zayn is the Red Hood.  He’s snuffed out enough of Zayn’s history to sort out Zayn’s days as Robin, his time with Batman, his death.  And Zayn knows, given his druthers, Louis would off his own father if he thought he’d gain a lick of profit off it.  So Zayn lets Louis corner his own bite of Gotham (no questions asked) as long as he stays off Zayn’s property.

That was the speck of respect between them.

“That’s not me.”  Zayn tucks his gun away.  Roughly, his fixes his leather jacket.  “I’m not killing them.”

Louis hums thoughtfully.  His fingers rub tiny circles under his chin.

Zayn sniffs, walks towards the massive wooden doors.  The window is probably safer―Louis always has a fairly heavy security detail guarding his every move.  But they wouldn’t touch Zayn.

Louis would make sure of that.

(Not that Zayn couldn’t use a good knock around this early into the day―it might do to wake him up better than that shit coffee did.)

“Then who is?”

“Dunno,” Zayn says over his shoulder.  “They can have whatever piece of Gotham or whatever bastard’s skull they want.  But not in my section.”

He’s halfway to the door when Louis calls, “If the Bat is honestly dead, at least Gotham still has the Bird Boy to keep an eye on it from people like you.”

Zayn hesitates.  He shouldn’t.  _Keep moving_.  He knows he needs to walk out.  But his fists tighten at his sides.  The tension burns like lighter fluid through his shoulders.  Last night’s arm wound throbs like the bass in house music.

Swallowing back his words, Zayn tugs open one of the doors.  He escapes.  There’s enough ghosts walking with him.  He can’t let Louis see his face.

Yet, there’s always one name echoing in his head these days― _Liam_.

 

+++

 

**Liam**

 

When he was on the trapeze, Liam would fly with no net.  Nothing to catch him.  In the air, he possessed no fear.

After Liam’s parents were murdered, he needed a safety net.  Something to keep him balanced.  Grace no longer touched his limbs.

He couldn’t remember how to fly.

Higgins Manor was Liam’s net.  His cold, sterile comfort.  His hideaway.  He can’t quite remember how many nights he hid in the shadows, clutching a pillow, squeezing his eyes shut until all the fear bled out.  Or where he learned to trust his wings again.  And this massive space Paul called home was the only thing keeping him from falling.

Now, this mansion is cold.  Empty.  It doesn’t feel _lived_ in―not that it ever did.  It has always been a bit hollow.  All of the luxuries without a stitch of affection.  It’s clinical from ceiling to floor.  Too massive to fit enough love to warm all the hallways and rooms.

But the Cave―it’s always been comforting to Liam.

In here, Liam was reborn.

In the dark, damp, endless reach of the Cave, Liam felt safe.

“You’re starting to look a bit like a ragdoll.”

Under the sterile fluorescent light, Liam smiles.  Paddy towers over him, gruff and grinning.  Cautiously, he bandages a fresh wound across Liam’s shoulder―another souvenir from a night of patrolling.  A new inch of marked up skin in his series of war wounds.

There should be an art exhibit for all the discoloring in his skin and varied bruises hashed over his body.

A good soldier never complains, though.  It’s what Paul taught him.  Take the blood and the scars; leave the city safer.  Funny enough, it’s all Liam remembers about this Cave―being stitched up by Paddy while Paul lectured him.

Last night, he’d let some mugger get the best of him with his blade.  He’ll never admit it but Liam was careless.

No, _carefree_.

His mind was somewhere else.  On someone else.  But not Paul, this time.  Shamelessly, he’d rather not confess that point to Paddy.  He’s more than grateful (for more than once) that Paul wasn’t around to scold him about his poor choices.

With a red face, Liam looks away from Paddy’s judging eyes.  A bit of a mind-reader, Paddy’s always been.

“I’ll do better.”

“Oh, bugger off,” Paddy scoffs.  He seals the wound, covering it with extra taping.  “You were never terrible, kid,” he mumbles.  “Always careful.”

Liam wants to laugh at that.  Instead, he ducks his head further.  “Got distracted,” he murmurs.

“S’ppose so,” Paddy comments.  “Master Paul?”

Liam sucks in a breath.  He could lie but he’s never been good at that with Paddy.  Not in all these years that Paddy’s been quietly watching over him.  Even white lies shown in vivid color to Paddy.  Trying to outwit Paddy was fun when Liam was a wee bit but age and sarcasm have worn those old games threadbare.

Paddy’s up to call his bluff with a soft punch and a warm smile but Liam knows better.

He bites shyly at his lip.  Self-defense, he thinks, or a coping mechanism for the feeling in his chest.

“No.”

“Miss Calder?”

Liam laughs this time.  It lifts some of the weight from his chest.  Quickly, he shakes his head at Paddy, wearing that same drunken grin.

“Putting up quite the fight for information,” Paddy jests.  “Those rubbish university blokes rubbing off on ya?”

Liam snorts, all of his injuries aching with the noise.  He tips his head back, blinding himself with the fluorescents hanging overhead.  It’s better than the admission on his tongue.

“Have you seen the news?  About the Red―”

Paddy clears his throat, roughly.  When Liam gives him a look, Paddy nods.  But his face is carefully blank.  Of course, it is.

It’s as if Paul never left.  Some secrets, information stay quiet.  _Inappropriate dinner conversation_ , Paddy calls it.  He’s always on about it.  Some things are not always best left unsaid.

Liam sighs.  He winces when he shifts his shoulder the wrong way, trying to stretch his tendons.  Paddy’s done brilliantly patching him up.  He always has.  But, right now, Liam regrets being clumsy enough to need this kind of attention.

A right rookie move, he supposes.

Being _distracted_.

His mind attuned to one person rather than―

“Have ya had a proper chat with him, then?”

Liam jerks his head up.  He blinks at Paddy a dozen times, pretending his eyes are adjusting to the lighting.  The wry lift of Paddy’s lips throttles him.  As if Paddy’s implying what Liam’s thinking―like he’s perfectly clairvoyant.  That maybe Liam’s not half as _mental_ as he wants to believe he is.  But Liam couldn’t possibly―

He is _not_ Paul.  That took bullocks.  It took Liam accepting things he hadn’t wrapped his brain around.  That all of the footage of the Red Hood (the way he moves, glides in the air, how Liam’s _seen_ those patterns before) could lead him back to―

Paddy clears his throat, again.  “It wouldn’t hurt―”

“It would,” Liam interrupts.  “A lot.”

Paddy hums, softly.  Settling all of the medical supplies away, Paddy tears away the latex gloves and says nothing for a moment.  But he looks ready to discredit every rationale thought Liam’s ever had.

In a polite, robustly caring tone, Paddy whispers, “Master Payne―”

“Maths is for tossers!  Where’s any of it ever gonna get me?”

A wash of oxygen expands Liam’s lungs.  He’s thankful for the interruption.

In the cave, Harry’s throaty voice rings like a treble note.  It echoes off every corner.  Liam grins over his shoulder as Harry comes into view―

A flop of tangled curls.  Eyes greener than summer vines of ivy.  Squiggly dimples, still underdeveloped in their charm.  He’s taller, broader but still a bit scrawny for sixteen.

“It’s bullocks,” Harry gripes, looking exasperated.

He’s older without a hint of the maturity.  But he fits as a Robin.  With that childish curiosity and anxiousness Liam once had.

Reckless but damn brilliant at being a sidekick.  A sick brain for sorting things out.

That softness fades from around Liam’s smile while he watches Harry.  He’s a bit like Liam but he’s nothing (might not ever be) like―

Liam stops thinking.  _Red light_.  Full-stop.  It’s for the best, he knows.  Slipping into a past that doesn’t fit right―like your old Christmas jumper shrunk in the wash―is never a good idea.  He’s not a tit.  Liam’s quite aware where his mind is headed―death row, party of one.

“Oh, Master Harry,” Paddy sighs in that protective tone Liam loves, “So much t’learn.  To absorb.”

Openly, Harry mocks Paddy.

Such a prat, that one.  Undisciplined and cheeky.  And, one day, he’ll be something else.  Gotham’s hero.  He’ll be better than Liam ever was.  With practice; _loads_ of practice.

“S’not gonna help me kick some criminal’s arse―”

“Language,” Paddy and Liam say at once.

Harry’s eyes grow the size of twin moons on the horizon.  Slack-jawed and incorrigible, the bloody deviant.

Paddy laughs first.  It’s a deep, rusty chuckle that Liam rarely hears.  Harry makes a face, then, he glowers.  Liam goes pink with blush, wincing.  When did he get so old?  Absently, he’s let all of Paul’s most annoying features rub off on him.

Like the trademarked scowl that blooms across his face when Harry prods Liam’s injured shoulder with a bony finger.

“Getting sloppy, old man?”

Liam grunts, flinching away.  “M’ only twenty-two, y’know?”

Harry shrugs, looking wily.  “That’s _old_.”

“Paul was―”

“A _dinosaur_ ,” Harry finishes, giggling.  Like this, he’s quite insufferable.  “Couldn’t even keep up with the bloody Riddler anymore.  Or even me.”

Secretly, Liam grins.  He keeps it hidden from Harry, though.  He’s aware Paul did that on purpose―only put forth half the effort on nights he patrolled with Harry.  An ego boost, for Harry, most likely.  Anything to build Harry’s confidence in the field.  Bloody hell, to let Harry feel like more than a sidekick.

An _equal_?

He’d done the same a time or two for Liam.

Somewhere, under all the dark clothes and constant moodiness, Paul’s heart beat louder for them than anything else.

Well, it _had_.

Christ.  This _‘adjusting period’_ feels like it might not ever end.  He should bloody well set up an appointment with a shrink or summat.  Because, honestly, it’s not like he wasn’t _offered_ therapy for his parents’ murder.  Or spending years running around in a skintight costume instead of being a normal teenager.

Nope.  He was quite well-adjusted there.  But Paul’s death?  It’s the one thing that’ll probably do him in.  A real mental case, he is.

“Can still take you down,” Liam says in a tone that is a tad affectionate but wholly patronizing.

Harry shoots him a challenging grin.

“Think so?”

“You’re a tad slow,” Liam teases, stretching, already feeling all of his muscles pleading otherwise.  “Out of your depth, mate.”

Harry barks a laugh.  It rings, like his voice, deep down into the bowels of the cave.

Before he thinks about it, Liam hops down from the examining table Paddy has spent far too many hours stitching him and Paul back together on.  His bones crack quietly.  And his shoulder is in poor condition.  He’s only half-dressed, his top thrown somewhere around.  But Harry’s excitement gives him a jolt of dopamine.

Harry’s going to be one of those lads that doesn’t need a drop of alcohol to streak around a university campus arse-naked or cliff-jump into an ocean.

“Think you can take me?”

Liam’s lips unconsciously pull up into a half-smirk.  The eye roll Harry gives him almost feels clinical.

“S’ppose I’ll have to show you.”

This is just a reminder between them: Harry constantly trying to prove he’s better than Liam ever was.  And Liam reminding Harry he’s still as brilliant as he had been before shucking off the Robin costume.

Two boys trying to be alphas.

Cubs wanting, for a brief second, to be the leader of their little pack.

(To be fair, Paul only let them go at it for minutes before knocking them both back into opposite corners.  His only reminder of their place in this unit.)

“Don’t make a mess of it, lads,” Paddy warns.  He clears off the bloody bandages, sighing.

They’re wearing twin smirks when they wave Paddy off.  Their eyes never stray from each other.  Counting the seconds.

Already, Harry is crouching into his usual offensive stance.  A bit predictable, that one.  Liam relaxes.  A calm washes over him.  Over the years, he’s learned to be less readable to opponents.  Giving yourself away leaves you open to vulnerability.  It’s a tragic lesson Liam learned while watching―

Shit.  Another brutal distraction.  Crisp static in his head.

Thinking about _him_ feels inevitable.

And, daftly, Liam knows he’s left himself open to Harry’s first strike.  _Bloody well done, sensei_.

Thankfully, this is all second nature―Liam blocks Harry’s fist.  He retreats before Harry can follow through with a kick.  Clever enough, Harry’s jab catches the inside of his ribs.  Off-balance, Liam staggers but maintains his line of sight.

“Fuck.”

“Getting slower,” Harry teases, taking cover.

Liam slips backwards, ignoring the throb under his skin.  He’s like a bird.  Grace is always his ally.

They trade blows.  Harry is a brilliant tumbler but Liam can soar.  Over time, his acrobatics have become like breathing.  A flip like an inhale; a somersault like an exhale.  He’s not cocky about it―but Liam knows no one can fly like him.

Not since―

“You’ll tire out,” Harry grunts.  But he’s already breathing heavy after five minutes, listing like an exhausted boxer after twelve rounds.  He’ll catch a second wind, eventually.

Not yet.

Liam smiles.  Harry is short on stamina.  And creativity.  All of his attacks are anticipated.  A jab, then a kick, an uppercut.  Liam avoids them, countering with swift hands that refuse to thump Harry too hard.

The runt bruises too easily.  Creamy, pale skin doesn’t do well with bluish marks.  There’ll be too many questions at school if Liam goes full force.

(It’s a pity―he wants Harry to wear his defeat.)

“Are you gonna replace him?” Harry asks.

The inquiry could be a diversion tactic―but Harry seems genuine.

Liam shrugs halfheartedly.  He dodges a high kick.  Honestly, he’s not quite prepared to face those thoughts.

“You _should_.”

They leap and chase each other all over the cave.  There’s plenty of ground to cover.  Stairs and alcoves and massive amounts of space.  Their own private gym, laid out in damp, dark surfaces.

Liam lands on light feet when Harry goes for his ankles.  He reciprocates with a jab that knocks Harry out of synch.  He stumbles; Liam laughs.

“Talk too much.”

Harry grins, wild and lethal.  He sweeps a handful of sweaty curls from his face.

“Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it.”

“Haven’t.”

“Liar.”

Liam ignores him.  It’s an affordable luxury since Harry chats about as fast as ice melts in the Artic.  He’s ready for Harry’s next strike.  Harry is young―still caught up in his own eagerness.  It makes this a bit too simple for Liam.

Carefully, he catches Harry’s wrist when he lunges forward.  It’s quite emphatic from there.

“Shit!”

Liam takes Harry down with little effort.  He pins him to the cold floor, pressing just enough of his weight on Harry’s chest to keep him from squirming away.  Because Harry is a genius escape artist.

“Sorry little bird,” he grins, hunching over Harry, “but ‘m not quite interested in the job.  The benefits are shit.  And I don’t quite fancy living in Paul’s shadow all me life.  Don’t really want t’replace him, okay?”

Harry narrows his eyes into green streams at Liam.  The fluorescents catch on them, poking at the gold around Harry’s irises.  His white teeth take hold of his lower lip in a rather petulant move.

Secretly, he’s still trying to escape.

Liam admires his determination.

“Alright, lads.  Enough play,” Paddy announces.  There’s already two towels tossed over his shoulder.  “Master Harry needs to study.  Exams on Friday.  Rugby practice on the weekend.”

Beneath Liam, Harry sighs tiredly.  There’s a wrinkle between his eyebrows, as if he’s thinking too much.  Or simply too knackered to fight Paddy on this one.  It’s the one part of Harry that reminds Liam of someone else.  That fiery need to seek out a fight rather than knowledge.  Always looking for his next adventure.

As if a calm, domestic life of books and _normalcy_ wasn’t good enough for them.

To be fair, it’d be plenty enough for Liam.

It’s all he wants.

Freeing Harry (with a few gentle smacks to his dimpled cheeks), Liam stands.  Harry scrambles to his feet, dusting himself off.  Liam bites back a laugh at that.  He winces from the soreness tightening around his shoulder.  Brilliant.  He _is_ getting old.  Thankfully, Harry doesn’t notice.

(Or, if he does, he doesn’t bother to comment.)

“Y’know,” Harry says offhandedly.  “I s’ppose you couldn’t replace Batman.  You weren’t really good enough.”

It comes out cheekily.  Like Harry is still baiting Liam.  Clever little twat.  But a part of Liam believes it―he’ll never be Paul.  The realization isn’t as harsh as he expects.

The corners of Liam’s mouth draw up into a smile.  He watches Harry walk away.  Quietly, his fingers grip around a discarded batarang.  He doesn’t have to bother with aiming―this part comes natural, too.

Effortlessly, Liam tosses it across the cave.  Harry’s reflexes are ( _predictably_ ) slow.  The batarang swipes across Harry’s brow, slicing a few curls clean off.

“You sure about that, little bird?”

Over his slumped shoulder, Harry smirks.  There’s something obnoxiously admirable in those green eyes.  A quiet admission.  Liam appreciates it.

“Okay.  Maybe.”

“Thanks,” Liam chews out.

“But you drive the Batmobile like shit!  Where’d you take your lessons?”

Harry’s laugh spills into the hollows of the cave until it’s all Liam can hear.  It’s nice.

Paddy stands in the shadows until Harry retreats to the lifts.  Patient and quiet, which is a hard image to erase for a man Paddy’s size.  But he waits until Harry is out of sight.

Slowly, the tension bleeds the calmness right out of Liam’s muscles.  He can sense something is pear-shaped.  Paddy is too discreet.  His face is too stiff.

“Tell me.”

Finally, Paddy flinches.  “Someone is shining the Bat signal over Gotham Towers.  The police scanner is going manic about―”

Paddy’s voice turns into white noise.  Snowy static.  Liam’s shoulders slump instantly.  His suit is already laid out, a fingertip away.  His gauntlets are sat next to his Eskrima sticks.

His motorcycle is probably already filled with petrol.

“Shall I contact Miss Calder to monitor things?”

A sigh breaks Liam’s lips first.  He wrinkles his nose.  There’s this distinct sinking feeling (like lead; heavy and unmalleable) lining his belly.  His nerves pulse, out of habit, until he has to clench his fists to shutter them quiet.

Liam nods, once, slowly for Paddy.

That life of books and domesticity looks massively like a lucid dream in his head.

Because Gotham will always need a hero.

 

+++

 

The lights lining Gotham Harbor are cold spheres of flaxen.  Brighter than most lampposts but barely enough to give the area a warmth.  There’s always the same scent here: murky waters and gun powder.  A constant stench of the mob.  Fitted suits and dirty money.

The salty taste of crime Liam can’t ever wash out of his mouth.

But nights on this wooden island are what he feeds on.

The tin rooftops are slick from an early evening rainfall but that hardly stops Liam.  Slip-resistant rubber on the soles of his boots keep him upright.  He balances from ledge to ledge like a sparrow.  Never misses a step.  He feels light and weightless as he goes.  Inside, he’s crowing with adrenaline.

Staring down at the docks, Liam surveys every kilo of space.  The greyish water shifts aimlessly, turning from that dirty emerald to a sparse blue from the moon.  Unmanned, docked ships hitched to wooden posts bob like toy boats on the uneasy waves.  Warehouses dot the dock, dark and rusted.

A graveyard of industrialism.

The call came in from the Commissioner―his only way of reaching out to Liam is that rusted Bat-Signal.  An oxidized piece of memorabilia, Liam reckons.

A forgotten symbol of Liam’s former life here in Gotham.

Liam barely remembers their conversation―a quick chat about mob connections.  Illegal merchandise; a rookie cop sniffing out the paperwork while undercover.  A boat coming in―a nameless crew.  Hired mercenaries, probably a handful of Falcone’s men, squatting the docks while trying to keep the heat off the scene.  Whatever.

Sounds like the same roundup of usual suspects Liam cares little for.

He’s not looking for a fight but, well―

Actually, maybe Liam is.  A quick burst of adrenaline or something to dust the tension out of his system.  One of those easy distractions.  Something to wear his brain down until he’s too knackered to think about Paul or Harry’s words or the cape and cowl still sitting untouched back at the Cave.

Just a bit of collateral damage could do him just fine.

Except, there’s already a breadcrumb trail of unconscious thugs laid out across a corner of the docks.

Bloody perfect.  Some arsehole has made a mess of his stakeout.  Crime scene tampering is not high on Liam’s list of _Things to Accomplish_ tonight.

“Always someone trying to act the hero, I s’ppose,” he says to himself.  A tiny frown pulls at his mouth, persistent when he looks over the scene below.  “There’s never a shortage of mental-jobs running around this city with a cape on, innit?  _Christ_.  What is _this_?  Metropolis?”

Scouting the area, he eyes a dim lit storage bay a few meters ahead.  Liam sighs.  His eyebrows scrunch indifferently at the crack of gunfire inside.  Brilliant.  Another mess to tend to.

He keeps his feet light across the roofs.  Down to the wooden planks.  There’s no bloody sense in tipping anyone off.  Especially not some gun-happy twat looking for a reason to waste bullets.

When he’s inside, there’s another graveyard of bloodied mercenaries laid out for him.  A few cops, too.

Funny, he doesn’t remember the Commissioner mentioning officers on the scene, yet.

Liam scowls.  He recognizes a few of the lads in blue―rookie cops.  Fresh meat from the Gotham beat.  A bunch of novices easily paid off to be scavengers for whatever crime boss shoved the highest stack of pounds at them.  Corruption wears one color: _green_.  Now they’re just a pile of wrinkled uniforms stained crimson.

“Good job, lads,” Liam huffs.

He barely flinches for them.  They can piss off, the whole lot, before he’ll lend a hand to help them lick their wounds.

“Shit!  It’s gotta be the Bat!”

Liam jerks his head up, the unmistaken spike of adrenaline leading him.

“With guns?  Sod off!  It’s _somethin’_ else!”

Biting at his bottom lip, Liam follows the gruff voices.  Panic strangles their words.  The thunderclap of guns makes him move faster.  He keeps close to the walls, his head perfunctory kept low.  It doesn’t take much for him to blend in with the shadows―a trick Paul taught him early.

“Where is _it_?”

Liam watches every corner as he moves.  Closer.  His heart hammers at the same jolt as the gunshots.  Liam hasn’t quite decided which one is louder in his skull.

Another whirr of bullets alarms him.  Then the heavy, clumsy thud of two blokes running for cover.

“He’s mad!  Shoot ‘im!”

“I’m _trying_ , dickhead.”

Liam smiles haphazardly to himself.  This lot is pretty brainless.  Shouldn’t be much of a sweat.

There’s only two of them―both staggering to get away.  From what?  Fear leaves them pale, brows slick with sweat.  And their aim is terrible.

They’re literally shooting at the shadows as they run.

Easy prey.

Liam tugs out his Eskrimas, tracking their feet as they move.  His blood turns hot―it’s the thrill.  Tension transforms into anticipation.  It transmits electricity through his brain, down the chord of his spine.  He’ll never admit it aloud but―well, Liam loves an easy fight.

Just enough exertion to break a civilized sweat.

“Shit!  It’s the other one!”

“Well,” Liam sighs, eyeing one of the stumbling blokes, “that’s quite an unfriendly, droll welcome.”

Reflexes jolt him.  Gunfire―loud like firecrackers at a celebration―is all he hears.  The first bullet skims past his head.  He’s up and flipping before the second shot leaves the barrel.  Timing―it’s a right mate of his.  He whips around, cracking an Eskrima across the first bloke’s skull, then the back of his neck.

One down.  The second lad is even easier.  But Liam plays it up―

Bugger, he’s not even sweating yet.

He clips the gun out of Bloke Number Two’s hand.  There’s a sweet hum when his Eskrimas slice through dead air.  A strike to the lad’s throat.  Doubling over, Bloke Number Two goes for a jagged knife in his boot.

Typical.

“Fun,” Liam teases, his lip curling up.  His eyes keep on the knife rather than beady eyes glaring him down.  “What else you got, mate?”

He’s anticipating the lunge―this bloke is desperate.  The tip of the knife misses Liam’s ribs by a hair.  He arches away from another strike.  His reaction time feels a bit groggy.  Jamming his elbow into his attacker’s temple, Liam disarms him quickly with his Eskrimas.  A jaunty kick to the head lays Bloke Number Two out.

A small sliver of perspiration finally breaks the skin, drips down his brow.

“Quite boring, you lot.”  He carelessly toes the knife away.

“Reckon they thought they’d be meeting the little bird; not you.”

Liam tenses, a coil wrapping tight around spine.  He absolutely bloody _freezes_ at that voice.

A dim, scratchy laugh turns Liam’s blood to frostbite.  In his head, he can count the amount of times he visited that headstone: _fifty-nine_.  He knows how many days it’s been since he last heard that voice.  The hum of his laugh.

Gotham is a rotting corpse with far too many privileged citizens strolling past the foul smell.  There’s an infection in the streets―crime.  Manipulation.  A bunch of thoughtless arseholes taking what they want and offering nothing back.  And the ones willing to fight back?  Dead.

Over the years, Liam’s been privy to too many situations where dead bodies tell only half the story.

Heart stuttering like he’s on the path to cardiac arrest, Liam doesn’t want to think about the bodies.  Or the ghosts that follow.

Turning on his heels, Liam anticipates a ghost.

Even under the crimson red mask, that laugh sticks to Liam’s bones.

It feels something like familiarity.  Like _childhood_.  No, like the cold sweat you get after a nightmare.

“What is it?  Cat’s got your―”

“Don’t you dare finish that,” Liam grunts.  His panting breaths bleed through his words.

He takes in the leather jacket―a dirty brown but fitted nicely.  The wide set of the lad’s shoulders; chilled but defensive.  His head is cocked, probably waiting for Liam to gather himself.  It’s the way he leans against a large metal shipping canister in a mostly black kit―except for that evenly placed red bat emblem at the center of his chest.

And that blood red mask over his head.

“Fancied a good patrol?”

His voice―distinct but muffled―sets the shivers Liam’s been trying to control into overdrive.

Defenseless.  His reflexes have given out.  Cottonmouth stops words short in his throat.

“A bit like Paul now, I see.”  The lad folds his arms over his chest―hiding the Bat emblem from view.  “All dark and mysterious.”

Liam struggles to swallow.  It’s the way he says it―like he still hates those words.  When they were younger, he hated Paddy describing him that way.

 _Dark and mysterious_.

Liam remembers.  Mostly because he never thought that way.

Not about the kid with a dodgy haircut.  He had this daft slash in one of his eyebrows―put there purposefully.  His laugh was raspy and contagious.  And it created all of these indescribable crinkles around his eyes.

 _Amber_.  Liam learned about that color while looking at those eyes.

No, that lad was a bit far from any definition of dark and mysterious.

His voice chokes when he says, “Zayn?”

He can’t tell but Liam thinks the soft tilt of his head means this lad’s smiling behind his mask.

“Bloody well couldn’t be, right?”

Liam glowers at him.  He’s not into mind games.  His fingers tighten determinedly around his Eskrimas.  His voice turns firm―as much as it can be while still half-strangled by uncertainty.

“ _Zayn_.”

A second passes―that unfriendly sting of static noise.  Slowly, the other bloke lifts his hands in surrender.  Possibly a peace offering.  Or it’s a diversion.  Liam doesn’t know.  He’s been trained never to confuse peace with someone concealing a gun.

“Alright, Li.”  His tone, soft and pleased, makes Liam flinch.  “I c’n see ya haven’t changed that much.”

His fingers wiggle before he raises his hands higher, gripping the helmet on either side.  He tugs it off.

Liam’s breath leaves him like one of those helium balloons losing air.  It’s as if someone slams his heart into a brick wall.  Dizzy is what his head is.

And then―

 _Relief_.  Bloody, utter relief floods him when he finds a pair of hazy mint-gold eyes looking at him.  They’re soft with thick eyelashes framing them.  His mouth is pink, plump bottom lip chewed to shreds, lips curling up.  Strong jaw cut like glass shards and thin cheeks show a hint of age.

Every bit of the Zayn Malik they buried a few years ago.

Zayn licks at his lips.  “Bit of fun, innit?”

Liam sucks in a sharp breath.  He’s not certain he hasn’t gone catatonic.  He’s read up on those things.  It happens, in extreme moments of shock.

Carelessly, Zayn brushes messy strands of white fringe from his eyes.  It’s the only indication that he’s not exactly the same.  Not like Liam remembers him.

“Must be rough?  Seeing me, yeah?”

“That’s fair,” Liam chokes out.  He lowers his Eskrimas, his body going slack.  “If I knew you were bloody alive and what not.”

“Surprise?”

“Hardly the word ‘m looking for, mate,” sighs Liam.

A loose smile manipulates Zayn’s mouth, very pliant in this horrible lighting.  It’s all toothy and young, like Liam recalls him being.

Well before, you know, he was _dead_ and all.

“I’ve seen the news.  Put a bit of it together,” Liam says, his voice still weak.  “Heard you were on and about but―”

All of his thoughts pause on Liam’s tongue.  Because he’s talking to a dead lad. That’s absolutely maddening.  And every one of those visceral thoughts he had about the Red Hood―it always ended in Zayn being behind the mask.

 _Always_.

“Couldn’t be true, right?” Zayn finishes for Liam.

“You’re―”

“Alive?” Zayn offers, amused.  His smirk hasn’t drained from his mouth yet.

Liam pouts, ignoring how petulant it might look.  “Not what I was going for.”

“Yeah, well,” Zayn gives an undiscernible shrug, “Couldn’t quite read your mind, now could I?  Unless you think that’s some sort of zombie trick I learned.  Which, like, it’s not.  It’d be kind of sick though, hmm?”

Again, Liam scowls at him.  Zayn’s always been a bit quiet around others but he was never less than cheeky with Liam.  Just to ruffle his feathers.  Bloody brilliant at it, too.

Silently, it’s something Liam loved about Zayn.

 _Loves_ about Zayn.  Because past-tense thoughts are no longer valid―Zayn’s quite alive from the looks of it.

“It’s you, innit?” Liam asks.  He’s trying desperately to school the anxiousness from his voice.  It’s a pitiful attempt, he’ll admit.

Chatting away with a _supposed-to-be-dead_ mate (or _a bit more_ , by the way his heart keeps fluttering like a giant hawk chasing its prey) can do that to a person, he reckons.

Zayn gives another halfhearted shrug.  “S’ppose so,” he hums, fingers still playing with the white fringe near his brow.  “Dunno what’s left of that lad you remember.”

Liam’s lips do a full tilt downwards.  His mind can’t help it―racing to sort out all of Zayn’s words in his head.

It’s all a bit cryptic.  A bit like Paul always was.

“Didn’t miss this hell hole all that much,” Zayn comments.  He looks around at his work, his mouth twitching up lethally.  “Still cleaning up the Bat’s mess, hmm?”

Liam doesn’t answer.  He’s studying Zayn’s hands:

Twin Glock 26s.  Easy to identify from Liam’s viewpoint.  The safety is off.  Stealthy bastard.

“Doing what’s right for―”

“Yourself?” Zayn interrupts.  It’s a challenge.  One of his eyebrows arches high at Liam, daring him to argue.  “Oh, right.  Gotham comes first.  Forgive me, mate.  Couldn’t possibly expect the Boy Wonder―”

“Don’t call me _that_ ,” Liam snaps.

A jeering smile slips over Zayn’s mouth.  It’s mocking but there’s a hint of apology leading it.

“This isn’t about me.”

“Is it about _me_?”

Liam sniffs, the tension in his jaw barely easing.  “You tell me,” he sighs.  “There’s a map of dead bodies across Gotham.  More than usual―”

“S’not my sloppy work,” Zayn huffs.

Silently, Liam believes him.  At least, he wants to.  He hasn’t got much of a reason behind it.  Punishing himself over guilt, probably.  He doesn’t know where Zayn’s been.  What he’s experienced.  How long he’s been back from… well, the dead.

But a sloppy killer?  That’s not the Zayn he recalls dicking about with.

Not the one he’s carefully loved since they were skinny, hero-worshipping teens.

Briefly, Liam drops his eyes.  “Someone is putting loads of criminals and good cops―”

Zayn sneers, shaking his head.  He disapproves of Liam’s wording, obviously.

“―in the ground.”

“In a city like Gotham?  Sounds like someone is doing this place a favor.  Could be anyone.  Heard the Riddler is out.”

“Not his style,” Liam almost whispers.

“And isn’t Oswald up for bail or summat?”

“Not yet.”  Liam swallows, keeping his eyes on all of Zayn’s subtle movements.  _Never let your guard fail_ ―he’s already mucked that one up.

“Gotham’s most trusted still haven’t caught _him_ yet,” Zayn spits, an inch of obvious hostility in his voice.

Instantly, Liam stiffens.  He doesn’t need Zayn to elaborate.  Not when Batman’s spent years trying to catch up with the bloody bastard that put a bullet in Eleanor’s abdomen.  The arsehole who put Zayn in the ground.

“Zayn,” he whispers, eyeing the way Zayn’s hands start to shake.

“ _Don’t_ ,” Zayn snarls.  “That’s the problem with Paul’s plan―people like that can still kill.  They can _hurt_ more people.  Stupid morale codes.  Senseless _‘protect but don’t kill’_ principles.  S’why this city will never survive.  Justice by immoral judges and overpaid suits, innit, Li?”

There’s disgust slick across Zayn’s tongue.  But there’s hints of a wounded lad, too.

That skinny, determined prat Paul always felt as if he let down.

“Zayn,” Liam repeats, the name caught in his throat this time.  It tastes like cough syrup.  There’s a dozen words in his mouth but he can’t get any of them out.  A roll of frustration shifts in Zayn’s expression.

“That’s _his_ way,” he hisses, fingers coiling around his guns, “but it’s not my way anymore.”

Liam steels his facial features.  Exaggerating his expressions will let Zayn too far in.  Swallowing thickly, he argues, “That won’t solve anything.”

Behind Liam, one of the mercenaries shifts about.  He crawls brokenly towards his gun.  Thoughtlessly, Zayn aims at his head.  A rush of adrenaline fills Liam’s glands―Zayn appears unconcerned.  The bullet cuts past Liam before he can counter.

His reflexes are still too slow.

A pond of blood reaches Liam’s boots before he can twist around.  He doesn’t have to examine the bloke closely to know―dead on impact.

“Solves quite a bit, mate,” Zayn snarls.

Liam’s counting his breaths.  He can barely blink his eyes from Zayn’s Glock.  From the remorseless glare Zayn shoots him.  The ghost of the boy Zayn no longer is.

Twirling his Eskrimas, Liam narrows his eyes.  _Instincts_.  He’s studying all of Zayn’s little movements; the changes in his expression.  Ticks in his muscles.  If Zayn thought to attack, Liam will be ready.

“Still thinking like the Bat, right?” Zayn asks.  His mouth licks into a smirk.  “I wouldn’t―”

“Dunno _what_ you’d do,” Liam argues.  “Don’t know you all that well, I reckon.”

His sharp words drag a brief flash of something wounded across Zayn’s eyes.  A spot of pain, maybe?  It doesn’t matter.  The look is gone so quickly.  Fading like cigarette smoke.

Zayn chuckles.  It sounds bitter.  “Sounds fair.”

“Does it?”

Shrugging, Zayn half-turns away from Liam.  An exit strategy, most likely.  Also, it hides Zayn’s expression―keeps Liam from reading him fully.

But Liam tracks him like a shadow.

“You always wanted to be him,” Zayn tosses out.  For spite.

“Fuck off.”

“That’s a poor chat up line.”  Again, Zayn laughs.  It doesn’t feel as full as the one Liam recalls ages ago.  “S’true, though.  Spent so much time―even after you hung up the Robin gig―trying to be this responsible version of him.  Like, a proper good son.  To get his approval.”

Liam can’t stop himself.  One hand reaches out, fingers wrapping aggressively around Zayn’s bicep.  They slip on the leather of his jacket.  Liam tightens his hold, tugging.

“I’m tired of being in his shadow,” Liam hisses, words spit through his teeth.  “Watching people I love die.  Or barely walk away.  It _sucks_ , mate.  Pretending to just bloody move on like none of it rattles me.”

Zayn scans his eyes down to Liam’s hand, back up again.  Liam doesn’t budge.

“’M bloody tired of being told I’m him,” he adds, all of the exhaustion he’s been fighting beginning to seep into his voice.  “I _can’t_ ―I’m not him.  I struggle just to be me.”

Seconds pass like that drip of sand in the hourglass.  Carelessly, Zayn jerks his arm free.  Once more, that flash of hurt cross his eyes.  It sticks until it’s eaten by unrestrained anger.

“You’ve no idea what that’s like,” he accuses.  Zayn’s voice wobbles, as if his throat can barely contain the venom.  “Living in someone’s shadow.  Constantly sorting y’self out.  Cause, mate, trust me I c’n write a whole library on it.”

Liam falters, blood draining from his face.  It does little to satisfy Zayn.

“I spent years listening to how much I should try to be you.”

The cold shock of breath Liam takes in isn’t enough to clear his head.  His heart slams against his temple in a disorderly manner.  And he’s stunned motionless.  Zayn’s words rattle around Liam’s brain like a mantra.

Shaking his head, Zayn steps back.

In the distance, the sirens are already coming closer.  GCPD will be on them soon.

“When I woke up, in the dirt,” Zayn breathes shakily, eyes narrowed to tiny slits, “For a second, I wished I had been you.  Maybe someone would’ve done the right thing and put the fucking Joker in a body bag had you been the one dead instead.”

All the words tremble off Zayn’s mouth.  And Liam doesn’t have a second to digest them.  His brain is too slow to process and the moment―as thick as it is with muted clarity―is snatched from him.

Briskly, Zayn shoots out the overhead lights in the warehouse.  A smoke bomb scrambles across the floor and that’s it.

He disappears.  Like he was never here.

Liam doesn’t give chase.  He could.  Liam has enough instincts to follow Zayn’s trail across a few rooftops or circle the city until he’s sorted out where Zayn is hiding.  Ringing up Oracle at this hour is nothing new.  Setting up a perimeter to flush Zayn out could take a few days but it’s plausible.

He could track down Zayn and make him _talk_.

But he doesn’t.

Breathing slowly by default, Liam let’s all of Zayn’s words sink in.  It makes him dizzy.  Chaos breeds around his confusion.  And all the neatly buried pieces of himself that didn’t mourn Zayn out loud start to rise to the surface.

The emotions float until his eyes sting.

Paper love letters you never show anyone.

Liam’s body sinks to the floor, pressed to an empty metal freight canister.  It takes a minute or two to slow the adrenaline to an acceptable level.  Unconsciously, Liam just sits.  Motionless.

He doesn’t do anything but keep those warm tears from breaking the surface.

Paul taught him that, too.

 

+++

 

**Zayn**

 

Earl Grey and cigarettes― _Breakfast of Champions_.

Or, more so, the breakfast of every underpaid Gotham resident living in the slums and feeding off the scraps of the privileged.

“Morning Gotham,” Zayn sneers.  “Thanks for nothing.”

He sniffs, chewing on his lower lip.  The view from his rundown flat isn’t gorgeous.  Just a series of staccato buildings―a few streets away from Crime Alley―that smear a look at the tangerine sunrise in a foggy background.  The East End of Gotham―it might as well be the tailpipe of this shit automobile of a city.

But Zayn likes hanging out the window by the kitchen for a breath of filthy smog.  Inhaling, he lets it stick to his lungs.  It a sweet burn down his nose, clogging up his throat, all the toxins Gotham has to offer.  And that supple ray of sun breaking the clouds―it gives a nice shine to the ugly bits Gotham has to offer.

Zayn sighs, wistful.  Another morning after―accompanied with sore muscles and scratched knuckles.

Hot tea and cigarette ash.

Quite typical, he muses.  His life is a bad habit in need of major rehab.

The morning is starting to stretch its wings like a dragon out of its slumber.  Fluffs of pink clouds dissipate in a slow crawl.  Every kilometer of Gotham’s grey surface fizzes with bits of light.

“Hardly terrible.”

Zayn yawns.  He takes a sip, then a lazy pull from his cigarette.  It’s all the calm he needs.

He doesn’t sleep much.  Hasn’t since pulling himself headfirst out of the grave.  _His grave_.  Probably all a bit of residual post-traumatic stress disorder.  It’s what the docs down at the clinic call it―he’s seen brochures on it.  He hasn’t bothered with a proper diagnosis and care options but the _insomnia_ ―

Well, it hasn’t bothered to leave him.

Instead of sleep, Zayn watches the walls.  Washes away the blood of _whomever_ from his skin with scalding water.  He stews in his thoughts until the sun breaks apart the stars and then it’s Earl Grey and cigarettes.

Whatever gets you your jollies, right?

Another day.  Another breath he’s not meant to be taking.

“Fuck,” he mutters.  His head hangs as he looks at the city below.

His mind hasn’t slowed for hours.  Overworked and knackered, his brain slips into autopilot.  A _rat-tat-tat_ of mementos fill it.  It’s all crippling.  Dragging a hand over his face, he hears nothing but Liam’s baritone on repeat:

_‘I’m tired of being in his shadow.’_

Zayn sniffs, then snorts a short sound.  Early morning breezes tickle his face.  Fill his nostrils with Gotham’s stench.

“Fucking _Leeyum_ ,” he whispers, his mouth almost betraying him with a smile.

The tea burns his tongue.  He cools the sting with a hit of nicotine.  Clears his throat of frustration, just to think for a bit longer.

Shadows.  Zayn has lived in them.  Bloody Batman taught him how to love them.  They’re camouflage and terror.  He learned the thrill of the dark and what it could do to people.  Bit sadistic, when he thinks it through.  Paul Higgins was bloody mad, if he’s being honest.

Zayn’s eyebrows pull together, the tension in his expression marginal at best.  The tilt of his mouth slides further down.  There’s a vaguely familiar weight pushing at his shoulders.  He’s known it since he was thirteen.  Since tugging on that red costume, silly yellow cape.

Since he was blessed (or _cursed_ , really) as Robin.

The _second_ Robin.

Zayn puffs out a thin plume of bluish smoke.  His skin feels hot against a cold morning.

“Bloody shadows,” he hisses.

Liam is clueless.  He doesn’t know the weight of expectation―not like Zayn did.  Liam was ace at everything.  Zayn wasn’t.  Always being told he wasn’t as graceful as the original Robin.  Never as brilliant or tactical.

Paul constantly reminding him that he was doing it _wrong_.

That heat crawls further up Zayn’s skin, across his ears, blistering his hairline.

Robin isn’t that aggressive.  Careless.  It feels like common knowledge: Liam was never as angry as Zayn was.

Zayn hacks out another puff of smoke.  For a moment, it takes the wind out of him.  He flicks the quarter of a ciggy left down to the fire escape below.  The ash floats up like a bird in the snow.

His teeth dig unhealthily into his lip.  It’ll split soon.  Zayn doesn’t care much; another habit turned to injury.

But the weight on his shoulders grows heavier until his spine wants to snap in half―

As Robin, Zayn was never as good as Liam was.

Scrunching his face to dismiss those thoughts, Zayn pulls a new cigarette from a well-worn pack.  There’s only two left.  He’ll probably burn through them before noon.

Fishing his lighter from a pair of softly wrung out joggers he’s wearing, he lights up.

The first exhale feels like ecstasy.

“Bugger,” he coughs.

The second drag tastes a bit like regret.  Toxic.  Quite fitting.

Abandoning his tea, Zayn flops down on a dumpster-bin-ready settee.  He stretches out.  There’s a cinderblock for a coffee table he props his bare feet on.  Flakes of the morning sun try to beat across the ceiling of his flat.  They create shadow puppets along the molding.

Zayn snorts to himself.  He doesn’t resent Liam.  Not even a tad.  He never did.

(though, some days, he wishes he _could_ , if only to find an outlet for this poison)

Because Liam possesses something the rest of this city never did―a massively selfless heart.

It takes Zayn a second or two to realize he’s smirking to himself.  The most obvious indication is the heat lighting up his cheeks.  Liam is an idiot.  To love with that kind of inhuman weight on his shoulders is a mad way to live.  Ready to save any and every person that looks him straight in the eye.

All the blood with so little of the glory.  Only the daftest of wankers lived like that.

Taking a lazy drag of smoke, Zayn shuts his eyes.  Absently, he succumbs to the same thoughts he’d rather run from most days.

There’s always been something dangerously warm about Liam’s eyes.  Those rich crinkles around them when he laughs.  They’re a dizzying brown hue, like a fresh cup of posh coffee.  Brewed perfection.

“Fuck me,” Zayn exhales.

And his smile―it’s intensely contagious.  A delightful plague when he’s happy.  Even when Zayn was a brooding teen twat, the outrageous lift of Liam’s lips into a grin always barreled into him.  As if a freight train smashed into him without warning.  He’d be helpless to the way he’d smile back, too.  Just for the way it brought on those crinkles, deep around Liam’s eyes.

Bugger.

He feels like a complete sop.  His eyelashes flutter over his cheeks.  The twitch across his lips reminds him that he finds all of this so amusing.  Picturing Liam―well, the bloke he remembers Liam being.

Happy.  It’s the way Liam is.  Amazing, really.  This skilled acrobat with terrible jokes and a sick obsession with Harry Potter.  Liam is _giddy_ (in that mad, delusional way, of course) about life; about all of its challenges.  Hardly ruined by this ravaged city.

(Zayn couldn’t sort out the proper word for his own life.  Entropy?  He’d looked it up once; it tasted all sorts of appropriate for him.)

( _a gradual decline into disorder_ ―Zayn Malik, before and after death.)

“Fuck,” he hisses.  His ciggy is burning down to the filter and he’s barely inhaled anything.

He can’t, really, with his mind drifting.  Multitasking seems to elude him this morning.  Even the silly freckles across the bridge of Liam’s nose and those pepper stains of moles over his skin make Zayn’s dick give a small twitch.

Pathetic.  Grossly dismal of him.

He chews down on his bottom lip.  It’s sore from constant pressure.  The cigarette between his fingers ashes out.  On its own, his free hand brushes over the shape of his prick in his joggers.  It maps out the full weight of his cock, letting it twitch to life behind softly-worn cotton.  He gives it a squeeze, for comfort.  A sigh breaks his sealed lips.

It’s just that―

Call it a bit of infatuation.  A proper crush when he was fifteen and thought endlessly about Liam.  His bronze curls.  Bubblegum pink smile.  The way he made something in Zayn’s stomach knot for hours.

“Mm,” Zayn moans to himself.

As a small lad―a street rat in Gotham―he imagined finding a nice bird to marry.  To have a dogpile of wee ones with.  This imaginary, pleasant, idealistic life in Gotham.

Textbook rules, with fairy tale endings and such.

Zayn scoffs.  Having a wife?  A posh life in the city―in _this city_?  It’s not in the cards for gutter punks like himself.

But Liam at seventeen-years-old?

Tan skin.  Booming laugh that got stuck in your head for far too many hours after?  Sinewy muscles turning hard and balanced, like those properly fit lads in the magazines.  Shedding that cheesy Robin uniform (the one handed down to Zayn) for something striking?  Blush protesting against his cheeks whenever someone complimented him.

Fuck.

Zayn tastes copper on his tongue.  It’s only then he realizes―his own blood.  He licks away the metallic flavor from the edge of his fat bottom lip.  Right.  He forgot he was chewing away at it―

His mind has been full-blown in love with the thought of a life―with Liam―since puberty knocked him over.  A hopeless little dream he thought stayed buried.  That half of himself he was before the Joker took a crowbar to his ribs.

To his already half-functioning cranium.

Under his palm, his cock gives another spasm.  Should probably take care of that.

Nope.

He needs to go hunting.  Find another useless wanker to put in the ground for terrorizing Gotham.  For stepping on his turf.  That usually cleanses his brain.  Put a bit of bleach to his daft daydreams of a proper happy ending.

Pipe dreams.  It’s all a bit of rubbish.  Fairy tale happy endings?  Street punks like him never got those.

He’s no better than the criminals he puts a bullet to.  Insufferably useless.  The only difference being―the criminals break rules because they think they’ve run low on options.

Zayn is brilliant enough to know he’s never _had_ any options.

But, still, he’s none better than the ones carrying on like the world owes them a favor or two.  He’s just like them―

And needing to be buried in the cold ground.

 

+++

 

**Liam**

 

_Seventy-one.  Seventy-two._

Sweat trickles down his bare chest, snagging in the soft patches of hair between the muscles.  It sits fat and heavy across his brow.  An uneasy feeling gathers around him when the moisture starts to collect on the back of his neck.  The short hairs there dampen.  He’s still giving it a go, pushing himself.

Liam refuses to stop.

_Seventy-three.  Seventy-four._

The morning sun rinses all the grey from the inside of his high-rise flat.  The building is sat square in the middle of Gotham.  One of those luxury abodes, doorman included.  Proper swimming pool and a car service, when needed.  Even the lifts chat back at you as you ride.  A sweet gift from Paul for years of service, no doubt.

For being a well-studied, good soldier.

Liam tries not to think too much about it.  He keeps at the crunches he’s been sweating through.  This is his fifth set.  It’s a slow morning.  Every squeeze of his muscles draws out an angry grunt.

 _Seventy-five_.

His tongue pokes out the corner of his mouth, concentrating.  He’s been trying to find full-focus on strengthening his muscles.  Draining his head of thoughts.

It’s a shame, really.  His mind is stuck on _Zayn-bloody-Malik_.  Hasn’t quite sorted out how _not_ to think about him or the sting of his words―

_‘I spent years listening to how much I should try to be you.’_

_Seventy-six._

Liam’s head throbs like the bliss of a hangover.  All the exertion distracts his body from the adrenaline flooding his cells.  Gives him a bit of a goal to reach for.  He’s nearly there…

But like taffy, all of his thoughts stick to Zayn.  Bloody hell, he’s a daft idiot.  There should be a study done on his brain for science or summat.  Or a full-on lobotomy.

There’s a gathering of sweat on his upper lip.  He only notices because his mouth flinches up into a mild grin.

Zayn was a ruthless Robin.  Never careless, just blunt.  Constantly brooding and ready to make a criminal fear him.  This manic mixture of carefree and cunning.  Zayn was a collection of things Liam could never be.

_Seventy-seven._

In hindsight, Liam thinks he envied Zayn―that ability to recognize some areshole didn’t deserve a second chance.  The repeat offenders.  Forgiveness wasn’t a trait Zayn adopted easily.  He didn’t have a reason to.  The natural chemistry for clemency wasn’t structured into Zayn’s DNA.

It has its appeal―one of many things that keeps Liam so fascinated with Zayn.

“C’mon now,” Liam hisses at himself.  “Finish up.”

The similarities (and differences) between them felt loaded.  Not just that they were both orphans.  Or their mindless love of video games.  Zayn loved to draw; Liam loved to watch.  Some nights, Zayn would crawl into Liam’s bed just to have something warm and familiar to curl around in that cold mansion.  It wasn’t a cuddle―it was comfort.

_Seventy-eight.  Seventy-nine._

Liam fancied the way Zayn looked at the world.  As if this universe was auditioning for his approval; not the other way around.

“ _Christ_.”

He’s done well not missing that boy’s wry smile or his thick hair.  His far too skinny frame, all broad shoulders to counter narrow hips.  Sharpness around his eyes.  Thin fingers clutching Liam’s wrist in the middle of the night.

Liam has stood over Zayn’s grave, with plump salty tears in his eyes, enough times to forget how this all gets under his skin.

A festering infection he can’t get at it with his dull, bitten-down nails.

Bless, the snick of his front door unsettles his brain.  There’s enough security equipment ( _thanks Paul_ ) that he never worries over intruders.  An enemy wouldn’t make it past the lifts without voice recognition permitting them on.  The comforts of technology, he chalks it up to.

He barely flinches from his position on the lounge floor, scraping up one last crunch before popping up to his feet.  The sun filling up his flat keeps the sweat warm on his skin.

Visitors aren’t a common thing for him.  Liam’s done well making friends around the city but, mostly for himself, he keeps them all at a distance.  Not many to hide his secret from if they’re not close enough to even bother dropping by his flat.

But he knows who it is without blinking.

Liam smiles to himself at familiar humming.  It’s coming from the kitchen.  A nice lullaby, or something from the radio.  He jogs on soft feet towards the noise.

“G’morning.”

Liam hovers in the entryway.  He’s still shirtless and warm, but there’s a swooning in his belly.  Delicious little feeling he barely ponders over.  He watches her as she cooks a fry-up.  The sun hazes off her soft shoulders, choppy brown hair hanging loose.

Eleanor shoots him a nervous smile.

“Not very good at being quiet anymore, am I?” she asks.

Liam flashes her a guilty smile.  His shoulders shrug indecisively.  Pandering out a simple answer hasn’t been easy, lately.

She sighs, half-turning away from him.  It’s a struggle with her forearm crutches but Eleanor manages.  She’s determined, as with everything she does.

Liam tries not to glare at the crutches that keep her steady.  Or the slumped posture that is perpetually hers now.  Another sadistically beautiful gift from the Joker.  The bullet took away years of her life, even though they don’t speak of it out loud.  But they kept her safe―they kept her out of the field.

(If he’s being honest, Liam is thankful for that part.)

“You do fine,” Liam insists.

“Think so?” she hedges.

Liam remains confident, relaxing into a stance that echoes his feelings.  Eleanor hates to settle, lips fixed into the closest resemblance of a pout she can afford while focusing on the fry-up.  So Liam lets his smile push all the way up into his eyes and Eleanor returns it, if not a bit smaller.  But there’s a hint of relief washing over her face.

A bullet to the spinal cord could hardly slow the genuineness Eleanor has always possessed.

“I’ve got bacon.  Want in?” she offers.

“Coffee,” Liam groans, padding into the kitchen.  “A big cup.  And loads of toast, too.  ‘M starved.”

Eleanor giggles.  “M’not surprised.  Bad night?”

Liam pecks a kiss to her cheek as he passes.  It’s a bit apologetic, mostly friendly.

“Monitoring me again, El?”

Eleanor ducks her head, guilt settling around her.  There’s rolling pink blush setting her cheeks aglow.  A clever smile chases across her mouth.  “A girl’s gotta have summat to do if she’s stuck in these things.”

She makes a show of her crutches, dressing it up with her hands like a showcase model on one of those television game shows.  Liam doesn’t acknowledge them―the forearm crutches.  Unlike the rest of Gotham, he refuses to stare at Eleanor or her handicap.  It seems cruel.  Constantly reminding someone they'd had better luck from being a target of the Joker’s had they not been the bloody Commissioner’s daughter.

Her disability is not a topic of gross chatter.

It’s a _reminder_ ―like those white stripes in Zayn’s fringe.

 _Zayn_.

Liam nearly drops the carton of orange juice he’s hauled out from the fridge.  His hands shake almost violently.

Eleanor clears her throat, eyeing him.  There’s something off about her, if the look in her expression tells anything.  Which, it does.  She’s easy for him to read.

“El?”

She gives him a weak smile.  Swallowing, her throat wobbles visibly.  She blinks down at the fry-up in the pan instead of him.

“There’s been a noticeably massive amount of crime since the Batman―”

She pauses, the wind knocked out of her voice.  Eleanor can still barely say it out loud.  Chewing at her lip, tension steels her shoulders.  Uneasiness creeps behind her eyes, makes them wide and shiny.

Liam bites back a sigh.  He waves a hand in front of her, a vain attempt to shake her out of a daydream.  “Continue.”

He’s giving her an out.  A chance to retreat if she needs to.  The thin smile she presents him is her quiet appreciation.

Eleanor hates coming off vulnerable.  She looks absolutely miserable at the topic.  In reality, it’s a flaw Liam thinks they all possess.

Even Paul.

Gently, Eleanor adds bacon to the pan, just for something to do.  Liam doesn’t comment.  He stays quiet, waiting for her to finish on her own time.  He busies himself with the coffees, minding the toast (because he’s world-class at burning things.)

“I’ve been monitoring the city.  Scanning the police radios.  Checking in on Harry after lessons―”

(because they both know Harry is a wildcard, the bloody donut)

“―and tracking your patrols.”  The last part comes out softer.  As if she’s not meant to say it.

“Following me, El?” he asks, his voice leaning on teasing.

“It’s my job.”  There’s a banner of firmness in her tone.  She’s not budging on the subject.

Of course.  Eleanor has been a part of their misshapen inner circle for as long as Liam remembers wearing that silly crimson and canary outfit.  She’s a fixture.  Just as stubborn and determined as any of the rest of them.  Even after her run-in with the Joker, Paul still gave her assignments.  Call it an act of redemption, Liam figures, for whatever guilt Paul was toting around with him.

She’s a watcher.  Guardian.  Or, quite simply, just Oracle.

“I’ve a right to worry about you, Liam.”

No argument there.

Liam sniffs, palming his hand over the nape of his neck.  There’s a firm heat there not brought on by the sun or exercising too vigorously.  The coffee gurgles next to him, the scent earthy.  The aroma of greasy bacon overtakes the singe of frustration burning off Eleanor.  It’s welcoming, Liam thinks.

“You’re the boss.”

He gives her a quick nod and another kiss, to her forehead this time, to placate her.

Eleanor sighs, wiggling away.  Schooling her expression, she continues.  “There’s no Batman to look after Gotham.  Just you and Haz.  So I might’ve,” she clears her throat of that hint of embarrassment, “tapped into your com-link the past few nights.”

Liam raises his eyebrows, giving himself away.  Eleanor goes quiet, as if she has more to say but refuses.  She’s watching him in her peripheral.  Waiting on an admission, probably.

It takes his brain all of five seconds to circuit the idea of _lying_ to her instead of striking up a fuss.

“Zayn’s back,” Liam says, coating his voice in casualness.  Dead mates returning from the grave shouldn’t call for unnecessary dramatics, right?  He burns his tongue on his first sip of coffee.  Brilliant.

At least it scorches the remaining words he’s holding in right off his tongue―

 _Zayn is alive_.

Eleanor nods.  She keeps her head low.  If she’s ready to burst, he can’t tell.  Maybe she’s biting at her words?  Probably.

“He’s different,” Liam stammers.

She’s still quiet.  Not judging, just listening.  Almost like Paul used to when he was waiting for Liam to get to the point.  To shovel out the lie he was about to tell.

Softly, Liam finally whispers, “But he’s still Zayn.  He has―it’s _Zayn_.  Every bloody inch of him.”

Eleanor divvies up the food between them.  She hums gently in this way he should be used to while Liam passes her the orange juice.  But there’s a thick uncertainty―like those industrial-sized rubber bands used in office buildings―stretching between them.

Even as a kid, Liam has hated this kind of awkwardness.

Gently, Eleanor folds a hand over his knuckles.  She gives a light squeeze.

Liam drops his head, staring at nothing.  “It’s Zayn,” his throat shivers out.

It feels like hours pass in seconds.  When he lifts his eyes again, she’s smiling.  It’s a wee bit teasing but comforting.  “Is he still ridiculously beautiful?”

Instantly, Liam flushes a deep red.  The blush prickles at the apples of his cheeks.  He shovels food in his mouth as a distraction.

Shrugging stiffly, Liam shifts his eyes away.  “Dunno.  But how would, like―how would I know, anyway?”

He’s stumbling all over in front of her.  Everything on his tongue feels like rubbish.  And the lie tastes saltier than the bacon shoved in his mouth.

Eleanor cackles next to him.  She leans carefully against the counter, leveling Liam with an exasperated look.  He’s caught out.  She only needs but a few clues, the bloody snoop.

“Reckoned you could appreciate a fit lad if you saw one.”

Blush riddles his face.  He wants enough courage to change the subject.  Fighting off the burn of embarrassment isn’t something Liam is very skilled at.

But Eleanor is a friend.  She’s never given him any shit about fancying blokes.  Or the shitty nonexistence of his love life.  The one that is more one-offs between studies and being Nightwing than any genuine moments of adoration.  No definable relationships.  He’s landed more dates with his textbooks than a nice lad these days.

In fact, she probably knows better than him the last time he had a proper date.  Or a decent shag with a bloke whose name he actually recalls.

(But he doesn’t let her in on his thoughts about Zayn―she’s done that naturally.  As oblivious has he thought he’s been, Eleanor has always been keen to take the piss out of him about Zayn.)

(She’s a terrible mate in those respects, honestly.)

“You think too much,” she grins, tapping her finger to the tip of his nose.  “It makes you ugly, mate.”

“Shut it.”

She laughs softly.  Nicking his coffee, she makes a face at the taste.  It’s saturated in sugar, lacking cream.  “Never got over it, did you?  Him dying?”

Liam’s eyebrows come together in a jagged mess.  His face pinches, wrinkling up his nose.  “Never had a chance to,” he protests.  “Had a proper time trying to get the Bat to forgive himself for Zayn getting killed.  Kinda mental how that sort of thing sticks with you.  Gives you a bit of a complex, I s’ppose.”

“Until Harry came along, right?”

Liam swallows loudly.  _Even after Harry_ , he thinks.  But since then, it’s been more Liam trying to convince himself to forgive what he _didn’t_ do to protect Zayn.

To love him.

Bloody hell.

Eleanor scuffs one of her crutches on the warm kitchen tiles when she shifts about.  “We all have our scars from the Joker,” she mumbles.

It’s true.  A laundry list of scars and not enough ointment to heal a single one.

Liam raises his eyebrows at her expression.  Her lips twist idly, trying to avoid the frown.  Helplessly, Liam thinks it’s the only part of his teens that he can remember.  _Death_.  Eleanor taking a bullet.  Paul trudging along on insomnia and bottles of bourbon.  Graveyards and the other side of his bed much cooler without a boy with thick raven hair to warm it up.

“”Too heavy?” Eleanor asks, wrinkles defiling her brow.

Liam snorts, even though t feels useless.  He’s not much for a laugh when his thoughts are this dense.

“Maybe.”

“Maybe,” she echoes, sighing.

Uneasily, they fall back into their patterned silence.  It solves all of nothing but they keep at it.  Eleanor tucks strands of hair behind her ear.  Liam finishes his coffee.  She steals his leftover toast.

Everything in its place.  In its silence.

The knot in Liam’s stomach prevents him from finishing the rest of his food.  Instead, he picks at it.

“How are classes going?” Eleanor asks after a beat.

Liam groans but a smile flits over his lips.  “Business and economics are shit.  And I absolutely need my maths professor to bugger off.  He’s talking gibberish.”

The quirk of Eleanor’s smirk is lit by the morning sun.  “Need a tutor?”

Liam snorts, a real one, nodding.  “Couldn’t hurt.”  He passes over the scraps of bacon he hasn’t finished.  “Are you free at four in the morning?  S’my only break.”

Eleanor rolls her eyes at him.  It’s not mean; an extension of her playfulness, he can tell.  Distantly, he thinks she misses patrolling.  Slipping into that snug purple kit and flappy cape.  The stench of Gotham hardly noticeable from her perch on the rooftops.

But Eleanor never shows it.  Not for more than a second.

“Dunno,” she teases.  “Got so much on me schedule these days.”

Liam sidles up to her, giving Eleanor a teasing nudge with his hip while letting her lean into his chest.  His arm curves easily around her hunched shoulders.  He drops a familial kiss to the top of her head, soaking in the heat starting to wash over Gotham.

This sort of quiet, he can handle.

“Oh,” she gasps, pulling back a little.  “Don’t forget the charity ball at the end of the month.”

Instinctively, Liam groans.  He hides most of his face behind a hand.  Peeking through his fingers, he eyes her.  Eleanor shoots him a glare.

“You have to, Payno,” she insists.  She’s taking that motherly tone with him.  “Someone has to be there in Paul’s absence.”

“Why _me_?” he inquires, his voice exasperated and whiny.

Eleanor scrunches her face.  She looks about ready to whack him.  “Because Harry is a twat about getting all dressed up and stuff.”

“And I’m not?” Liam chokes.  She snorts, a smile flitting over her lips.  “Not as much.  Plus, you clean up better.”

“Fucking hell,” he grunts.  Another cuppa would do him well.  He half turns with a devious grin pointed at her instead.  “Will a certain Detective Horan be in attendance?”

He can barely contain his reaction when Eleanor’s skin blossoms an ugly pink.  He spits his coffee into the sink, cackling.

“Shut it, you,” she glowers.  “Sure, I dunno.  It’s a _charity_ do.  It’s possible, I reckon.”

“Possible,” Liam repeats, amused.  “Possible that you’ll be chatting him up a bit?”

Eleanor rolls her eyes on cue.  Teenage crush or not, she’s fancied Niall Horan since he joined the force.  Heart-eyes and giggly schoolgirl charm come to life.  She’s a good sort, so is Niall.  Liam’s not much of a matchmaker but―well, those two would suit each other.  Proper fit, really.

Plus, Liam loves to watch her squirm.

“Shouldn’t you be minding your own for a date y’self, Payno?” she proposes.

“Bugger off.”

“Can’t show up alone.  You’ll make the whole bachelor bit a tad too obvious.”

Liam sucks in a sharp breath.  He hates charity balls.  Getting all proper spiffy with tuxes and bowties.  And he’s horrible at trying to scramble together a date for the night.

“Should I ring up that one bloke from last term?  From your Greek history class?” she offers, wriggling her eyebrows.  “I quite remember you two studying the anatomy of―”

“I need a workout,” Liam grumbles, waving her off.  His cheeks are flushed.  There’s absolutely no disguising that.

“I bet.”

“Shut up, El,” he grunts, stomping out of the kitchen.

“I’ll have Paddy press your tux, Boy Wonder!”

Did Liam mention he has no friends?  Not a single one.

 

+++

 

**Zayn**

 

There’s still warm traces of blood creating tiny rivers between his knuckles.  Red like stringy licorice.  The throb behind his bones is dulling, turning nearly numb.  A paracetamol would do him good.  That last arsehole had a jaw of steel, he swears.

Zayn laughs to himself.  He still got that wanker to squeal.  Hummed like a proper caged bird.  The bones would heal―this sort of information was invaluable.

Someone is taking out all of his suspects, all of his direct leads on this mystery.  They’re leaving a trail of body bags all over Gotham; breadcrumb trail to some twisted murder spree.  A fine pile of bad―and good―people before Zayn can get a word out of them.  Someone is trashing _his_ territory.  Leaving behind a crimson calling card.

And the bloody dickheads at Gotham City PD can’t piece it all together.  Not that they were ever any good at that.

That’s what the Batman was for.

“World’s greatest detective,” Zayn snorts.  He smears the blood between his knuckles over the inside of his leather jacket.  “Damn well should’ve been the only one.”

The sun is a runaway fireball now, creating a red lake in the usually dull sky.  Smog makes the scenery a sick neon display.  The backdrop of the city is just orange fizz from up here.

It’s Zayn’s favorite spot―a rooftop of an abandoned library overlooking the grid that makes up Gotham City.

Plopped on the edge, he lets his feet dangle off the ledge.  They sway back and forth, heels thumping against age-worn brick.  Zayn watches twilight seep in.  Orange starts to bleed into a smoky purple.  The aerial view gives him a full look at how beautiful this city can be from the outside―

Before you realize how rotted the arteries and blood vessels are at the heart of Gotham.

Zayn whiffs out a breath.  There’s so much to watch (the corner store where teen punks try to sell their product, the fresh market closing up in a hurried manner, a nightclub prepping for the oncoming crowd) but he can’t keep focus long enough.

Not until his eyes catch a flash of yellow and red hopping from building to building.

The bloody fucking brat―Robin.

Nope.  His replacement.  _Harry_ fucking _Styles_.  Zayn refuses to recognize him as anything other than a kid trying to fit into his old suit.

A poser.

“Poor form,” Zayn scoffs.

He’s rating Harry’s every move.  A zero to ten scale, of course.  It’s amusing, so Zayn keeps his eyes on Harry―

The flop of his stupid curls when he runs.  How silly he looks behind the domino mask, spirit gum barely keeping it in place.  His cape flaps flimsily as he hops.

He’s a six, easily, and that’s Zayn’s very unbiased (well, _partially_ ) opinion.

Zayn sniffs, leaning back on his hands.  His knuckles throb with the weight.  It’s something he can ignore (Paddy would always scold him for never tending to his wounds after a patrol―Zayn misses that) to keep his eyes focused on the brat.

“Showoff,” he grumbles when Harry does a front aerial onto the next building.  “This isn’t some bloody Jason Bourne film, brat.”

Somewhere (probably in the back of his rubbish-filled mind), Zayn honestly doesn’t hate Harry.  _Probably_.  He hasn’t decided.

Harry is enthusiastic.  Clumsy, sure, but he’s resolute.  The kid doesn’t fall for the dogma all the cape-wearing idiots preach.  He’s got his own agenda―Zayn can read that off his smirk.  The silly push of his dimples when he’s eyeing his prey.

But Zayn hates what Harry represents― _Zayn Malik was replaceable_.

Dead and gone.  Paul found someone to fill his boots.

“Watch your step,” Zayn says under his breath.

Predictably, Harry slips on a roof shingle.  Brilliant.

Zayn laughs to himself, feeling it deep in his chest like a shockwave.  Harry’s a good forty meters off, so he doesn’t spot Zayn.  Not that Zayn would care.  The thing is―the brat isn’t quite cut out to be out patrolling alone, yet.

His mistakes make him an easy target for the scum feeding off the city.

Absently, Zayn wonders if Liam isn’t far behind.  Keeping a close eye on Harry.  Playing the role of a shadow as not to ruffle Harry’s tiny feathers.

Probably not.

Harry is a rogue.  Out to prove himself, earn his stripes.  Zayn can relate.  But Liam, whenever he was in Gotham, always kept close to Zayn.  Back then, Liam wasn’t Zayn’s shadow―he was an extension of Zayn.  Always close to his side, even when he didn’t have to be.

(Deny it.  _Deny, deny, deny_.

He’ll deny to anyone that having Liam like that― _fucking hell_ ―always made something warm pool in his stomach like a long sip of steaming cocoa after standing for hours in the snow.)

There’s a sharp tang of copper on Zayn’s tongue.  He spits out blood, watching it stain like graffiti on the roof’s edge.  His jaw is starting to swell.  That fucking gorilla really got him good.  Cheers to him, yeah.  Now the wanker is missing a few teeth, has a handful of cracked ribs, a mild concussion.  Zayn thinks they can call it square, so bless.

He leans further back while his mind drifts―

To Liam―where else?

Those rare nights when it was just the two of them on patrol.  Slow, quiet nights.  Stealing breaks from shutting down small-time criminals to flop down on a rooftop like this.  Sharing takeaway containers of curry and kebabs―because Zayn fancied turning Liam onto his culture―and wafting in their comfortable silence.  Loud sips of green tea to wash down their food.

Because Liam was always so _willing_ (the daft idiot, with his stupidly wide smile) to let Zayn have his way.

With their feet dangling over the city, they’d share playful smiles.  Crinkly eyes dimming high-rises and cloudy skies in their vision.  Streetlamps buzzing slashes of tangerine along the streets below.  It’s as if they could let the night stretch around them like an armor made of cotton.

In between, there was terrible banter and then, more of the quiet.

Zayn loved the quiet.  It always made Liam a bit nervy, especially around other people.  These terrible twitches around his eyes and nose.  Restless limbs.  Always needing something to do with his hands.

But on rooftops with Zayn―it’s as if Liam’s heart would finally start to slow.  He was steady.

“Shit,” Zayn hisses, shaking off those dreadful thoughts.

Imagining the amber hints around Liam’s espresso eyes is a very unhealthy thing.

Especially for a dead man.

(Or just because Zayn will never confess he’s a bit hopelessly gone for Liam― _still_.  Dead or alive.)

Zayn refocuses himself.  Harry is perched clumsily on a chimney.  Even behind the whiteout lenses, Zayn can tell Harry is glaring at the city.  Still unaware of Zayn staring at him.  Harry is a pup guarding his backyard with the broken fence and wolves treading around the perimeter.

“They’ll eat you alive,” Zayn laughs to himself.

But Liam will protect Harry.

It’s what Liam does.  Whether Nightwing or university student or plain Liam Payne.  He watches out for others.  Liam makes people his priority.  Zayn wonders if Liam inherited that from his parents.

Selfless bastard.

 _Christ_.  Zayn is completely ruined.  He should’ve stayed away.  Made off to some other destination once news broke that Paul Higgins was dead.  Start over, fresh, without all the hang-ups he never muddled through before the Joker―

Sixty seconds of staring at Liam’s jaw, the tease of his birthmark under the collar of his suit, his sweat-tousled hair did Zayn in.  He’s bloody mucked up the fantasy that Liam would’ve forgotten him after being dead and gone.  That he wasn’t even a blip on Liam’s radar.

 _Wrong again, mate_.

Sputtering out the last of the blood in his mouth, Zayn rises.  His neck cracks when he rotates it.  Watching the brat is rather dull.  Zayn needs a cigarette and whiskey.  Loads of whiskey to forget Liam―

“C’mon, you dolt,” Zayn curses himself.

Deep down, he knows he won’t be bleaching his brain of Liam tonight.  He’ll be creaming his sheets, one hand curled fiercely around his pulsing dick, later at the thought of roughing Liam’s sweet mouth up with his own.

 _Shit_.

 

+++

 

**Liam**

 

In his decade or so living at Higgins Manor, it never felt quite like home for Liam.  An in-between?  Maybe.  A hollow space to collect things, to dither around in the empty hallways, hear the echo of his voice in the kitchen at night.  A museum of a rich bloke’s life.

But Liam’s few days here―the Gotham City Orphanage― felt like a _something_.  A small hint of paradise (in a poor man’s form) between his life at Haly’s Circus and Paul taking him in as a runt.

Here, Liam can still taste the salty tears along the dusty pillow he cried into nightly.  His mouth goes dry at a memory of hot porridge and bitter tea in the mornings.  On these grounds, he can still remember chasing the sun into the trees.

The creak of the old staircase when his tiny feet padded down it.

The cacophony of children’s laughter down the halls while he wept over his parents.

He finds it hard to shrug any of it off.  Still caught in those childhood senses, Liam crosses the main foyer and recalls lugging an oversized suitcase out the front door well over a decade ago.  All the smiles the nuns flashed him―as if he was escaping to a posh life of freedom.

Christ, they were wrong about that one.

“Get back here Miss Thirwall!”

Liam’s lips quirk up instantly, a smile playing like it’s on the verge of scrunching up his face.  Stuffing his hands into the pockets of his detergent-soft university hoodie, he watches the scene play out―

From the top of the staircase, Jade rounds a corner.  Full-speed.  She doesn’t even look before she leaps―fuck, she’s graceful.  All glide and balance, hypnotic to the bare eye like a magician at work.  She skims down the banister instead of using the stairs.  Tiptoeing down the thin frame, her feet barely touch the varnished mahogany.  She’s weightless.  Her teeth grip a muffin in her mouth, one steady hand balancing a cup of tea.

There’s a nun chasing her, a ruler in hand.  Liam snorts to himself, tipping his head back to get a good look at Jade.  She’s already leaping down, tittering from the floor before the nun even reaches the middle of the stairs.

Jade is light on her feet―like a bloody lion cub on the hunt.  A bloody grifter, that one, with honey-toffee skin and dark hair.  Her mouth is pulled into a smile like a proper Cheshire cat.  There’s freedom in her massive oak-brown eyes.

Liam envies every bit of her.

“Run Jade!” one of the children, freckle-faced and crinkly eyes, shrieks happily.

And she does, leaping around a packing of applauding children.  She’s making it for the opposite hallway.  An unplanned exit, probably.

Her clothes are rough and patch-worked, most likely hand-me-downs.  But she’s pure gold.

“Oh no!  Not that way!” another kid groans.

Liam bites unceremoniously at his smile when she’s finally caught by two charging nuns.

“Almost Jade!”

“You’ll get ‘em next time!”

She’s breathless, doubled over while a nun snatches her tea, wild spills of it staining the already scruffy carpet.  Jade seems almost as happy to be caught as she was making a break for it.  A small blip of relief washes over her face.

“Enough Miss Thirwall!”

She rolls her eyes at the scolding nun, righting herself.  Taking a massive chunk out of the muffin, she hands it over, looking hardly apologetic about it.

Jade Thirwall―a proper troublemaker in a beauty queen’s skin.

“Thanks for the workout, ladies,” she says, saluting the brooding nuns.  The predictable scowl she receives in return hardly bothers her.

“Still nicking afters when you’ve already had breakfast?” Liam wonders when she ambles over to him.  He sizes her up, remembering her being a bit closer to his height as children.

Again, she rolls her eyes.  The twitch of her mouth into a less-than-embarrassed smile gives her away.  Remorse and Jade have never gone hand-in-hand.

“Just summat t’do,” she responds.

Liam huffs out a breathy laugh, all engorged relief being around someone like her.  Jade is another piece of this aging building that makes him feel like home.  Or something close to it.

She’s never wanted a home outside of here.  The orphanage (and its thick gathering of nuns) is all she’s ever clung to.  Jade is quite fine without a new set of parents.  A proper family to take her in.  She’s got on quite well since she was nine-years-old, removed from a life of dumpster bin diving for leftovers to this aging residence.  Honestly, Jade takes care of herself (and some of the smaller children, too) just as well as any guardian.

The nuns should’ve put her out ages ago―she’s past eighteen―but she’s as much the foundation of this orphanage as the old trees in the garden and the creaky staircase in the foyer.

“Still quick as a cat,” Liam mentions, his voice teasing.

Jade gives him a mild shrug.  Her quirky smile remains.  “S’ppose so,” she says coyly, “Maybe one day I’ll be a cat burglar.”

Liam wiggles his eyebrows in response.  He doesn’t doubt her.  There’s something cunning about her personality, deliberately dancing on the edge of right and wrong that Jade attaches to.  Liam imagines, one day, they’ll meet at opposite sides of the law.

For a second, Liam muses if he’ll even be swift enough to catch her.

“Missed me?” she wonders.  Her tone is on the edge of flirtatious.

It’s another trademark of Jade’s―man or woman, she’s never quite satisfied.  Her appetite for attention is like feeding a dragon a saucer of biscuits.

Liam ignores it.  “Just mucking about, I s’ppose.”

Jade scoffs.  Her eyebrow arches up perfectly, eliciting a fumbling grin from Liam.  “This isn’t the place for that, Payne,” she admonishes.  “A bird could get the wrong idea.”

Instantly, Liam’s cheeks flame an awful pink, spreading down to his jaw and neck.  He’s flustered.  The bloody tart can still get under his skin, he reckons.

“Just wondering if you lot have had any familiar guests,” Liam confesses.  “As of late.”

Something flashes in Jade’s eyes―unmistakable in how it effects the lift of her eyebrows, the tilt of her chin.  Her mouth opens into a perfunctory “O” like she already knows.  Liam wonders if she does.  If she’s seen _him_.

If possibly―

Jade shakes off the look.  Her tone slides easily into indignant.  “In this shithole?  Who would―”

“Manners, Thirwall.  There’s wee ones about.”

The cold, stern lilt of a voice so familiar, it warms Liam like hot porridge in the middle of January, silences Jade without much preamble.  Sister Clara does that to him―summons childhood feelings and familiarity he’s too ignorant to search for.

Her voice clings to his ears like static.  His cheeks are already starting to ache from the shape of his smile.

Jade sighs loudly.  Liam can tell she’s stubbornly avoiding the nun’s eyes, wadding against uninvited defeat.  She spins on her heels, eyebrows drawn.  Sister Clara clears her throat and Jade is scampering off before she can comes closer.

(Jade is hardly a coward―but she’s never quite got on with Sister Clara.)

Sister Clara clucks her tongue at Liam’s appearance (she’s one for neatly pressed shirts, clean slacks, polished shoes) before drawing Liam into her arms.  She still takes him in height but Liam’s broader, swallowing her up in his arms.  Her face is weathered from years of service but her eyes are still that sweet color of unbothered Earl Grey tea.

Liam clings to her gentleness.

“Haven’t had enough of ya ‘round,” she mumbles to his temple, the sweet lilt of her Irish accent ringing.

“Sorry,” Liam replies, sheepishly.

She clucks at him again, giggling.  Ruffling his trainwreck hair, she pulls back.  This time, she sizes him up, eyebrows drawn high.  Just that easily, Liam turns into a pathetic adolescent under her gaze.

His posture is probably poorly.  There’s a few rips in the knees of his jeans.  He does a nervous self-check in his head―is his skin well?  He should’ve given himself a shave.  Can she pick up on his lack of sleep?

“You think too much,” she whispers, feathering the words with a giggle.

Always a bit of a mind-reader, that one.  It makes Liam burn up like a star teetering towards nova, his blush bright and red.

“I try not to,” he says softly.  A hand comes up to rub at the nape of his neck.  He’s worrying his bottom lip with his teeth.  She taps at his jaw until he finally stops.

“Talk,” she commands.

“It’s Zayn.”  Somehow, the words blurt past his lips.  He feels his insides liquefy just mentioning the other lad’s name.

Sister Clara nods, curling a perfunctory arm around his very stiff shoulders.  She gives a hum instead of a response.

Typical.

They make their rounds of the property, fanning in and out of the rare Gotham sunshine as they walk.  The orphanage is sat on a decent chunk of land.  It’s a catacomb of decay and beauty.  Liam follows Sister Clara’s lead through the maze of hedges.  Into the archway of trees he used to climb.  Flocks of children run around them, shouts of _‘London Bridge is falling down…’_ under a wave of sun.

Liam soaks it in.  The sky is like a coastal blanket of blue today.  Phantom snapshots of the splendor Gotham seldom lets out.

And then, after stewing in his thoughts, he finally opens up.

Sister Clara never interrupts him while he talks.  She listens.  Attentive eyes and a sharp smile.  Her arm stays steady, looped around his shoulders as if she’s the only thing holding him together.  But Liam still feels like a temple of broken bones as he mumbles everything out.

At least, all that he _knows_.

(the bits about _how_ or _when_ Zayn came back; the determined rim of revenge in his eyes… he leaves out those bits)

“Well,” she hums, smiling gently, “I wish I could say we’ve seen ‘im, but no, m’dear.  Not a lick of ‘im around these parts.  He was―always has been a bit protective of this place.”

Liam nods quickly, as astute as a student or a child being lectured on the merits of good behavior.

It’s not just the orphanage, Liam suspects.  The surrounding neighborhoods in this vein of Gotham.  That old halal café three blocks away.  All the alleyways nearby―the streets Zayn called home before being hauled off into the orphanage.

Before Paul took him in, too.

This tattered, worn property was Zayn’s center, his heart after his mum disappeared and his dad caught a bullet for being a police informant.

It’s the first place Liam thinks to look.  For what?  Well, he’s not sure.  But chasing a ghost who’s not really―well, a _ghost_ isn’t exactly a simple task.

When they were younger, Zayn could hide away for hours in the mansion and Paddy would never locate him.

Only Liam could.  In the crawl spaces.  Under a bed.  Sometimes, having a lie-in while in the backseat of one of Paul’s many luxury sports cars.  Honestly, he could never sort out if Zayn got a kick out of disappearing from plain sight or if it was just a survival instinct―letting the world think he didn’t exist so he could stay in his own headspace a little longer.

Whichever, Zayn clung to the shadows.  To vanishing.

It feels like Liam had spent most of his teens trying to _find_ Zayn.

(also, his sick obsession with Zayn is getting a bit muddy―he’s noted that)

He just needs to _know_ ―is Zayn honestly okay?

It’s a shit dilemma.  And probably a complete waste of time, too.

“But,” Sister Clara gins, jogging Liam off his thoughts, “some of the wee ones swear he’s still here with them.  Looking after them.  A bit of a ghost.  Or a guardian, I reckon.”

Liam sucks in a breath.  It aches on the way down.

“Do you―”

“’M a bit old to still believe in ghost stories, don’t ya reckon?” she titters.  Her bony fingers pinch his blush-stained cheek.  “Still, there’s an anonymous donor hefting massive amounts of money to these old parts―weekly.  Rivals that of what we get from the Higgins Foundation.  Put new paint on the walls the other month.  And more beds in the rooms, too.  We had a Sunday Roast with all the fixings to celebrate.”

Her beaming smile overtakes her face.  It creates a sticky warmth inside Liam―like fresh cotton candy sticking pink and gooey to your fingers.

He nods her way, trying to return a grin.

“Quite the torrent, that Zayn was,” she laughs to herself.  The softness of memory recollection overtakes her expression.  “Couldn’t quite keep ‘im out the pantry.  Or the trees.  Like an uncaged bird, he was.”

Her words drag an absently large grin across Liam’s mouth.  It pushes his cheeks right into his eyes.

Zayn was a runt, then.  A skinny, quiet hurricane knocking everyone on the arse with his unpredictability.  Even the mansion couldn’t hold his wild thoughts.

Liam rubs at his smirk with his fingers.  He misses that about Zayn― _the quiet_.

A bit of an introvert, the way Liam had been when his parents were murdered.  But that bit of Zayn never wore off, really.  Always running to something.  _Somewhere_.  Clinging to Liam’s side (not that Liam could _ever_ complain about that part) at any given chance.  Two teenagers bounding across rooftops.  Laughing into the cool dusk of night.  Nowhere to call a destination.

But a whole city couldn’t cage their grins when they were together.

Orphans running towards the stars.

“I guess I’d fancy one last look at that bugger,” Sister Clara grins.  The reverie in her voice knocks Liam out of his thoughts.

He lifts his eyebrows in a questioning manner.

“Just t’ see if he finally found what he was looking for out in the trees.”

A home, Liam thinks.

It’s all either one of them wanted out of this life Paul gave them.

 

+++

 

Waiting for Liam outside of the orphanage is a steaming cup of milky coffee―attached to a pale hand, a bed-head of blonde hair, and whimsy eyes a crisp blue like the sweep of clear sky above.

 _Detective Horan_.

Outside of Eleanor, he’s the only one in this overpopulated city that’s in on their secret.  Call it intuition.  Poor man’s luck.  Or, despite how cheeky and thick Niall can be, the bloke’s a damn good detective.

(and even better at keeping secrets, Liam must admit)

He sorted Liam out on his first night on the cop beat.  Terribly observant, that one is.  Niall locked in on Liam, on patrol, cornering him at half one in the morning, after Liam zip-tied and delivered a fresh batch of criminals for GCPD on the stoop of the station.

Halfway to heading home for a nightcap and a cold bed, Liam got clumsy.  Peeled off his mask, in an alleyway, Niall a few feet off having a look around.

Shit, Paul never let Liam live _that one_ down.

(in hindsight, Liam didn’t _deliberately_ avoid Niall’s line of questioning the next night or, conversationally, tell Niall to _sod off_ before making a fuss of being caught to Paul but―)

“Good news?” Liam asks, offering Niall a teasing grin.

Niall gives him a rough shrug and a toothy smile.  With Horan, it’s never good news.  Figures.

“Depends,” Niall mocks back.  “Are we chattin’ dead bodies or that shitty footy team you support?”

“Oi,” Liam crows.  “Lay off, okay?  Our defense is getting better.”

Niall wrinkles his nose, shaking his head.  The soft frown he’s wearing leaves Liam no room for soaking up mindless banter between them.

Liam sneers and steals the coffee from Niall’s hand, grateful.  It burns his tongue on the first taste but heightens his senses.  He feels awake, for once.  God bless Niall’s addiction to caffeine.

“How many?” Liam wonders after his third sip.

“Three,” Niall grunts, producing a file stuffed with polaroids, a brief write-up in terrible scrawl.  He’s like a manslaughter magician.

Liam examines the photos over the lip of his cup.  It’s a mess.  A jigsaw puzzle of detached limbs.  Fucking hell.

“Anyone new out of Arkham?”

Niall shakes out his fluff of blonde hair.  It’s always shaggy and in need of a trim.  It takes away from the edge of rough stubble behind Niall’s jaw, prickling up along his chin.  Gives him a bit of youth, even though Liam knows life on the police force robs you of that after a year or two.

“All the usual suspects are still locked away,” Niall comments, his voice tired at best.  “Doesn’t look like their typical scene either.”

It doesn’t.  All the right motives―but a laundry list of tactics that Liam doubts even a few of Falcone’s lackeys couldn’t pull off.  But Liam doesn’t want to agree; not yet.  Not when his eyes won’t leave the Batman symbols smeared across the walls in every photo―messy artwork done in blood.

 _Christ_.  It’s gruesome.  Some maniac’s calling card, no doubt.  Sick, twisted bastard.

Niall lifts a tiny can of Red Bull, downing it without a breath.  Jesus, it’s not nearly the heart of the afternoon yet.  Hard-life, the ins and outs of a Gotham detective.

“What about―”

Niall clears his throat, something anxious behind his droopy eyes.  He licks the dryness off his chapped lips.  Liam isn’t prepared.

“What d’ya know about this Red Hood?”

Liam stiffens, bones wrapped in cement.  It’s not intentional.  But the mention of Zayn does that to him these days.  He can’t quite escape Zayn’s presence in every bit of his routine.

“Nope,” he mumbles quickly.  “Not him.”

“Y’sure?” Niall hums.  He takes another gulp of energy rink, twitching.  “Bunch’a rookies say this guy takes perps out with guns ‘stead of the usual Bat stuff.  Bloke doesn’t leave many scraps behind, either.  Prefers bullets to the old tie ‘em up thingy y’prefer.”

Half of Liam’s mouth rises into a smile.  Niall is hardly an articulate wanker but Liam respects the bloke.  He can sort out a case in hours that takes the best PD around the station at least a week to fumble through.  If he’s being honest, Niall is a bit of a genius.

(who loves beer, coffee, underdog sports teams, and probably Eleanor Calder―not necessarily in that order, either)

“S’not him,” Liam repeats.  He sniffs while scratching at his temple.  “Trust me.”

Niall pitches back on his heels, nodding.  In his eyes, there’s a hint of that trust they share.  A well-formed bond between them.  So Niall nicks the coffee for a sip while Liam studies the pictures from a closer view.

“It’s getting massive, mate,” Niall grumbles, halfheartedly sighing at the sky.  “Too big for the Commish, me thinks.  The whole force is mucking through a lake of shit for this one.”  He trades between the coffee and last of energy drink, buzzing.  “Plus, the press is catching on.  A shit-storm is brewing and no one’s got a proper umbrella or a pair of wellies.  Need bigger guns on it, to be fair.”

Liam blows out a breath.  There’s the start of a throbbing headache around the front of his skull.  He wrinkles his nose, tilting his head to cast a look at Niall.  Hoping against everything, he wants to find a hint of reprieve in Niall’s face.

It doesn’t exist, predictably.

If he’s being honest, Liam knows he’s in over his head with this one.  Bloody arse-over-elbows or whatever.  Eleanor could help.  He knows Harry is no good for this one.

Silently, he wishes Paul was about to handle it.  Clean up the mess.  Leave the leftovers for Liam to sort through.

But a bigger part of Liam hates that he knows he _needs_ Zayn for this.  A right foul idea, innit?

It’s a bloody shame he doesn’t just run from it all.  Let Gotham City PD (and all of its _clueless_ _dicks_ ―minus Horan, of course―sat at behind a desk pretending to solve crimes) sort it all out.  Easy plan.  Ditch the grime of Gotham for a life secure of dead bodies and a life behind a mask.

“The sods down at the station haven’t got a bollocking clue where to start,” Niall trails off.  It seems like an afterthought in Liam’s ears―grey and useless.

Just an aside―or bait for Liam to finally bite at the hook Niall’s been dangling over him for ten minutes now.

Liam bites harshly at his lower lip.  The caffeine is wearing off.  He just feels heavy.

 _Ready to run_.

It’s never just that simple, is it?  Sliding the weight of the world off your shoulders should be an easy job.  Just drop the bloody load already.

“I’m on it.”

Niall nods twice, looking thankful.  On another spectrum, Liam appreciates that.  Just not in this moment.

Liam lifts his eyebrows lazily, passing the folder back.  Clumsily, Niall manages to balance the coffee, can of Red Bull, and the file with two hands.  Well, barely.  It makes something ring―a laugh, but not quite―in Liam’s system.

It doesn’t last.  Once more, Liam has a job to do.

Yeah, he’s getting to be so brilliant at doing the opposite of what his heart wants.

 

+++

 

Call it dingy or seedy.  The grub here is a divine banquet for lower-class citizens.  This space is the sort of place that’s always a mess―albeit, a good one if Liam’s giving out marks.  A kind of dive blessed with the comfort of homegrown coziness that’s not always available across Gotham.

Liam slouches down into his booth, admiring the vintage look of this old diner.

He likes the cracked vinyl on the seats, grazing his fingertips over all of its history.  His eyes scan the fading pastels on the walls, the dim lighting.  Plastic menus, the _Special of the Day_ scrawled out in chalk on a small blackboard over the main counter.  This place is unsuspecting, homely.  It’s not the kind of joint most mobsters do business in.

But Tomlinson’s men do.

Liam’s been sniffing out this place for a few nights.  Loves the greasy scent of chips and vinegar, spoonful of gravy on the side.  The late night sliders and milkshakes stick to the roof of his mouth.  Water from the tap tastes like piss but the afters are brilliant.  And the crowd is dull, filling out all the other booths with all their lethargic, late night energy.

It all keeps him unnoticeable.  He hopes the oversized “Gotham U” hoodie he’s slung on, snug joggers, and old snapback do, too.  An average uni student.

A lad bumming around for grub after studies rather than Nightwing.

But it’s quite easy for him to fit in around these parts―Liam’s never been a natural at the posh, overpriced lifestyle Paul was accustomed to.

He’s a geek.  A right university nerd.  Thick textbooks, shite attire and that.

No one pays him any mind.  Not even the sweet waitress, grey-blue hair and too much lipstick on her teeth, who passes him a free slice of pie each night he comes in.  She keeps dumping coffee in his mug, keeping it filled with a smile that’s awkward and dull at once.  He’s polite and she’s uninterested.

“Charming,” she always mutters, like she’s trying to inflect kindness.

And Liam always blushes, ears to cheeks, biting at the laugh trying to get out.  Ducking down in his booth, there’s still not a single gaze sent his way.

It’s quite perfect for a stakeout.

Liam’s fingers keep time against the table to the Louis Armstrong blaring off the jukebox.  His body slumps lower in the booth.  He’s been watching the main door, carefully.  Any minute now.

Tomlinson’s muscle and lead bloke will stuff themselves into the same table.  Same order.  Same snarky chats over tea that tastes like bullocks.  Same plates of mash and bangers.  Same stiff on the tip when they leave.

Right bunch of predictable bastards making a noisy show of being arseholes.

Tonight, though, Liam will be ready to follow them out the door.  Hold a decent distance between them while tracking their next move.  Tip off Horan, maybe.  Get a few details on this _“Bat Killer”_ (brilliant nickname, paps; fucking get a proper job) taking out cops and criminals alike.

Right now, however, he waits.  Narrowed eyes, fuzzy eyebrows furrowed, his mouth pinched into a frown.

“You’re too obvious.”

Liam startles, nerves chewing at his bits.  Before he can speak or even get a proper look, he’s being nudged over in the booth.

Flopping down next to him, Zayn shoots Liam a craftily clever grin.

 _Correction:_ Zayn’s sharp eyes― _amber_ , even in less than decadent lighting―startle Liam much more than his grainy voice or his sudden appearance.

“They’ll be onto you in a second,” Zayn adds, sinking down in the booth to Liam’s height.  “It’s all over your face.”  He makes a show of poorly mimicking Liam’s expression, clearly amused.  “And y’keep sitting in the same spot, babe.  Night after night.”

Liam twists his lower lip between his teeth, his mind bogged down enough that he can’t remember his vocabulary.  Hell, he’s lost track of his damn ABC’s by just _staring_ at Zayn.

It should be―by easy assessment―perfectly obvious that all of the attention gets Zayn off, in a way.  That roguishly pink mouth climbs upward into a smile, starting at the corners, and Liam blinks three times just to find some focus.

“Too obvious,” Zayn repeats, smirking.

Sighing, Liam gives Zayn an indignant scowl.  It’s the best he can do.  He’s attempting not to be swayed by how incredible Zayn looks in a wooly jumper too big for his slight frame or how the worst of his white fringe is hidden under a beanie.  There’s scruffy stubble under his chin, around his mouth (he’s forgotten to shave, Liam observes) and a pair of semi-dorky-but-impossibly-smart-looking black framed glasses sitting lazily on his nose.

Even the smug curve of his lips ( _very_ pink, a bit pouty) could be distracting.

Except, Liam’s not the sort of lad to be sidetracked by―well, _shit_.

“They won’t,” Liam hisses, his voice strained.

Zayn snorts.  Well, it wasn’t Liam’s strongest argument, he’ll admit.

Liam rolls his eyes, pouting.  Yes, he is a bloody prat, thanks Malik.

“Same lad, night after night, in the same booth?  Nothing changes?” Zayn comments, still smiling.  “It’s fucking obvious.”

“Obvious of what?”

Zayn leans in, his voice gone breathy and arrogant.  “Y’look like an undercover cop of sorts,” he whispers, a thin veil between smug and cautious.  “A poorly lookin’ one, mate.”

Liam frowns, keeping his mind off the hot line of Zayn’s shoulder pressed to his.  He wonders, for too long, if Zayn’s words burn that indifferently for others?

“Are you getting enough sleep?”

There’s a crease in Zayn’s lips―an unconscious frown of concern.

“Are _you_?” Liam challenges.

Zayn shrugs weakly.  Their thighs touch beneath the tabletop.  It’s an unwelcome warmth (like bubbling magma) in Liam’s gut that he doesn’t care much for.

(but he loves that liquid heat in his veins―like a good swallow of hot tea, or that feeling of crushing on someone untouchable)

“Got loads of rest in the dirt,” Zayn mumbles.

Liam can’t help it―he flinches.  That one stings.  Something slinks into Liam’s blood―thinner than sympathy.  An indescribable want.  A craving to fix what has been broken.

But he can’t.

Liam doesn’t know _how_ to.

“They’ll catch you,” Zayn says after a beat, his eyes studying the door.  “Change it up.”

“How?”

The bell above the door chimes, merry and annoying.  Tomlinson’s boys stagger in, as if they’ve just come off a bender, happily pensive in their artificially expensive suits.  Greasy hair, slicked back.  Scowls and noise their only greeting.

The waitress behind the front counter huffs.  Louis Armstrong turns to Adele, creating an atmosphere.  All little details.  Liam’s senses key in on it all (as they do every night) until he knows every inch of the diner.

“Kiss me.”

It doesn’t click automatically.  Liam is too on edge, his mind wound up in perfect knots.  His eyes try to squeeze focus back into his vision.  Watching for a slight shift in one of the bloke’s demeanor.  Anything to set them off.  But Zayn’s clever hand under the table finds Liam’s thigh.  Gives it a sharp squeeze that awakens Liam’s dick.

“W-What?” he stammers under his breath.

“Kiss me,” Zayn repeats, softly.  “It’s the opposite of obvious.  You―out on a date with some bloke.”

It’s all still a jumble in his head.  Kiss Zayn?  It’s a war between his nerves and his senses.  Liam half turns to Zayn, exasperated.

Zayn sighs, dropping his chin.  “If you don’t distract them, they’ll sort you out in a heartbeat.  Kill you, mate.”

The shuffling into the booth in front of them catches Liam’s ears but he can’t look away from Zayn’s eyes.  It’s mental.  The way he’s fascinated by that freckle in one of Zayn’s eyes or the _trust_ Zayn’s stare keeps demanding Liam to give him.

And how he’s giving him.  Easy as can be.

“You’re mad,” he chokes out.

“And they’ll be disgusted by two blokes snogging,” Zayn swears, his tongue licking out over his lips.  “Won’t want to give you a second look.”

“Zayn―”

“Kiss me, you idiot.”

Liam’s mind is racing―a full-on gallop.  There’s a crackle between his ears.  And his heart hasn’t quit stuttering since Zayn sat down.  This isn’t his plan.  It’s a fucking circus.

Paul would never approve.

And Liam can’t― _it’s Zayn_.

He doesn’t want―

Zayn decides for him.  Slipping one hand behind Liam’s head, Zayn tugs him forward.  Artfully skilled fingers curl possessively over Liam’s downy hair.  His mouth eases against Liam’s in an earnestly gentle way.  Like a kiss you want but can’t forget.

Without hesitation, Liam moans into it.

It’s weird, really.  No, it’s _nice_.  Supple, he thinks.  The taste of it is sweet and minty.  Zayn’s mouth carries the right sharpness of cigarettes and honey hidden under layers of tea.  Bitterness overwhelming.  But sugary, too.

There’s just a flick of tongue at the seam that encourages Liam’s mouth open.  It teases his prick to full attention in his joggers.  Shuddery breaths keep escaping Liam.  He crushes Zayn’s lips under his teeth, nipping.  Their noses skim while mouths shift for a better angle.

It’s all soft, childishly slippery like neither of them are good at snogging.

 _Amateurish_ , Liam thinks when his brain stops fizzing out.

(And bloody well the best kiss he’s ever had.)

A crawl of static meanders under Liam’s skin.  He’s going for deeper; Zayn gone for hungrier.  It doesn’t matter much, to him.  The kiss feels blind and bordering on something foreign―a lifeline thrown out into the sea.

( _save him, save me, save us_ ―the chant in Liam’s head, buried beneath a siren of warnings)

He hasn’t noticed his fingers twisted in Zayn’s jumper.  Stretching the fabric beyond its limits.  Liam is too caught on his plump lower lip caught between Zayn’s sharp teeth.  Feeding the beast is all their doing.  And Liam’s shallow breathing is a noise louder than Zayn’s hiss.

“Gross.”

“Sod off, you pricks.  Bloody pussies.”

It all turns over in Liam’s head―Zayn’s plan.  All of this is just a―it’s _strategy_.  Nothing behind it.

Zayn draws back, smirking.  Liam is breathless, barely functioning.

Well, fucking hell.

“Not bad.”  Zayn’s teasing Liam, a slow-burning light behind his eyes.  Like chemistry in motion.  His fingers skim from the sharp hairs at the base of Liam’s neck down to the nobs on his spine.

There’s not enough words gathered on Liam’s tongue to form a proper sentence.

He just stares at Zayn.  Blank and inefficient at anything else.  Except, swallowing the bits of Zayn’s taste still in his mouth.

Zayn arches an eyebrow.  Liam’s nostrils flare, eyes wider than a full moon in a clear sky.

“Some lucky bird at home getting to enjoy that, babe?”

Liam flushes, the rush of blood weak because a good portion of it is still pouring into his flagging dick in his trousers.  He thinks to shove Zayn back―but that’ll give him away.  Tomlinson’s men might notice.

Instead, he folds his hand over Zayn’s on the table.  He makes a decision― _play it up_.

Angling in, Zayn licks his lips, ribbing up a smile.  Under his breath, he whispers, “Was that your first time snogging a bloke?”

Liam draws his eyebrows together.  Blush keeps freckling his skin.  Huffing, he replies, “That’s none of your business.”

 _First time having a snog off a lad?_   Nope.

Zayn smirks, knowingly.  His tongue drags over his mouth again.  Sinful, is what it is.  And deliberately enticing.

“Is it?”

Decidedly, Liam refuses to answer.  His expression pinches tight, his nose wrinkling.  It makes Zayn’s grin bloom wider.

 _First time feeling absolutely dizzy, heart-thudding-out-of-your-chest while kissing a lad?_   Yes.

A loud, electric kind of yes.

Liam bites his tongue but his mouth slides upward when Zayn can’t quite keep his eyes off Liam’s newly swollen lips.  He nudges in, for the effect of it, his nose brushing Zayn’s.  Temptation baits him but Liam doesn’t swing in for another quick snog.

But he keeps close.  Closer than he _should_.

Tomlinson’s men don’t even give them a second look.

It eases Liam into a loose feeling.  He’s still observant, studying their moves.  Their same order, same grumbling over bangers and mash.  Liam strains to hear their every word but―

A chunk of him is dissolved in this _thing_ with Zayn, too.  How their hands fit together on the table.  Zayn snuffling his neck―right at Liam’s rampant pulse point―when they’ve been distant for too long.  The smooth curve of his own smile when an old tune comes to life on the jukebox, Zayn humming along.

Playing a role for the sake of safety―at least, that’s what Liam _thinks_ they’re doing.

“Thanks,” he mumbles an hour later.

Zayn sniffs, slumped carelessly next to Liam.  There’s untouched slices of pie on the table, mugs of coffee gone cold.  Zayn turns his hand over underneath Liam’s sweaty palm.  Their fingers lazily slot together.

For a millisecond, a bashful smile rolls across Zayn’s mouth.  Brief in appearance, Liam’s a bit loopy at even noticing it in the first place.

“Shut it.”

“But―”

“Give ‘em ten and then follow them out,” Zayn suggests, his voice gone serious.

Cold and stiff, a reminder that this is what Liam thinks―a bloody masquerade for reconnaissance.

They’ve a job to do, remember?

The goons rattle the booth as they push out, spilling over sugar and leftover tea.  They’re careless brutes.  Same sour expressions.  Same stiffness on the tip.

 _Cheers_.

Zayn leans in, nuzzles Liam’s cheek with his nose when one of Tomlinson’s men flashes them a glare.

“I can watch your six until you get clear out of view.  Corner one of ‘em.”

Liam hauls in a breath, nodding.  But his body isn’t volunteering support.  A coldness sinks around him when Zayn pulls his hand away.  That feeling is hardly awkward―

He’s certain he’s been spending his life alone since Zayn died.

Zayn scoots out of the booth, stands with an uneven look.  Absently, he brushes crumbs from his clothes.  Fixing his glasses, he chews on his plump lower lip.

“After that, you’re on your own, mate.”

Trying not to sulk, Liam gives him a quick nod.  He doesn’t chase Zayn’s hand.  Or his mouth.

But bugger all, his body definitely _wants_ to.  It’s a terrible problem.

 

+++

 

Outside, the night bites cold and empty.  Liam snuggles into the warmth of his hoodie.  Like a promise, Zayn stays a few feet behind.  It’s a comfort, right?

Or a reminder of when they were like this―allies, chasing down Gotham’s shittiest criminals while Batman observed.

It’s hard not to glance over his shoulder.  Every few beats, just to make sure.  A smudge of hope in his head that Zayn will greet him with a smile or something other than the stiff, unrelenting glare Zayn keeps shooting him.

A tad too optimistic, he reckons.

Before they’re too far into the night, too out of their element, Liam turns.  He doesn’t have to follow Tomlinson’s men to know their next stop― _the Stacked Deck_.  After loading up on grub and tea, every low-grade wanker likes a good turn at that nightclub.  Something to unwind to.

A place to find an easy shag for the night.

Liam marches in Zayn’s direction.  Zayn pauses, broken pavement underfoot.  But Liam reaches him in a few strides, nearly colliding with him.  His feet catch him, hands shoved into his hoodie, his brow wrinkled when Zayn narrows his eyes.

“What?”

Chewing the skin of his lower lip raw, Liam stutters, “W-Was is your first?”

Zayn cocks his head, curious.  In a beat, his face softens completely.  His lips slide down.

Liam clears his throat.  “I mean―like, was it your first time with a lad?  S-Snogging a bloke?”

The moon spares a glare of silver light across Zayn’s glasses.  It hides the way his eyelashes bat rapidly.  But his mouth gives him away―

“Shouldn’t you answer me question first?”

“I won’t.”

“Then why should I?”

“Because,” Liam forces out.  There’s something _existing_ rising to the surface.  Frustration builds like the steam in a train.  And his heart is absolutely mad behind his ribs.  “Because I want―I dunno, mate.  Just answer.”

Zayn’s mouth curves up more than a tick.  He steps in, closer.  A hand skims the sleeve of Liam’s hoodie, right up to the elbow.  Precise fingers squeeze around the bone―less comfort, more deliberation.  His head remains tilted, admiring Liam.

“You’re blushing.”

“You’re avoiding,” Liam argues, his voice gone rigid.

Zayn sighs, his features refusing to be anything but kind.  His fingers give Liam’s elbow another squeeze.

“You’re losing your lead up ahead, babe.”

It’s not an answer.  And, honestly, Liam knows he won’t get one like this.  Not in the cold of the night, in plain sight.  It’s not quite Zayn’s environment―never has been.

In the shadows, hidden, where Zayn’s voice carries only loud enough for Liam to make it out over the buzz of his own heartbeat is the sort of place Liam can shake a confession out of Zayn.

Like back in the manor.  When they were hopeless teens.

“Careful, Li,” Zayn whispers, barely inching up to his toes.  Around Liam’s height.  Zayn presses a dry, chaste kiss to the apple of Liam’s burning cheek.  “You’ll sort y’self into a fit trying to find answers you don’t need to know.  Yet.”

There it is―a finger prodding at a bruise on the skin.  Pushing for the blind thrill of the throb it creates.

This is Zayn’s game―and Liam’s certain he lost at the start.

Liam sniffs, nodding stiffly.  He takes a stumbling step back.  Zayn doesn’t reach for him.  But his mouth inches up into an overconfident grin.  As if he’s writing all of the rules between them.

(and maybe he is―but Liam’s life is too mucked up to fight back)

“How can I find you if,” Liam pauses, looking down at his feet, “if I need you?”

Silence greets him.  He jerks his head up, looking around like a frightened animal.  Zayn’s not there anymore.  Another trick, via Paul Higgins.

Of course.  It’s not as if his life isn’t filled with ghosts, right?

 

+++

 

**Zayn**

 

Zayn refuses to call it an obsession.  Or a manic fixation.  Because it’s not.  Technically.  It depends on the universal definition of _whatever_ this is, actually.

But, secretly, Zayn is drowning in it.  This definition-less _thing_ that keeps swallowing him whole, night after night over cigarettes and rooftops, until he’s simply stuck.  A bit caught up.  If he had to admit it, he wouldn’t.  But the nightly strops after bloodying his knuckles on some arsehole’s face (not that every wanker he’s put down in the past few patrols hasn’t _deserved_ _it_ but―) have been a bit elementary.

Zayn can’t keep his mind in one solid place.  Hasn’t been able to since he came back from the dead but this feels heavier.

Like he’s seconds from snapping back to a person he doesn’t remember.

_‘So I heard you found somebody else.  And at first I thought it was a lie.’_

It’s the music that he keeps afloat.  The tinny sounds in one earbud settles into his system.  His fingers drum mindlessly on the table he’s sat at, the late afternoon sun leaving Gotham’s rarely cloudless sky lit like a shimmering ocean.  His teeth gnaw impatiently at his bottom lip while he tries to wade through the distractions.

Zayn knows he needs to focus.  Keep his guard up.

Leaning over his cooling cardboard cup of tea (the University of Gotham’s campus café has pretty shit generic tea, if he’s being honest) in a waffle knit jumper, Zayn watches.  Careful eyes track everything, casual observations of his surroundings.  But they barely leave one person a good eight hundred yards away.

It’s _not_ staring but his eyes never abandon his target.

 _Liam_.

The skyline overheard changes a bit.  Abstract clouds mingle in, a puff of smog making the sun look a bit like an artificial beam of neon.  It slashes across Liam’s face in deep waves.  Highlighting all of his features―the creases around his smile, those shallow crinkles around his eyes―until Zayn _wants_ to look away.

(it’s a bloody shame he doesn’t, the dolt)

For a lad with the weight of Gotham’s virtues constantly on his shoulders, Liam seems―well, carefree.

It’s disturbing, Zayn thinks.

Liam should be studying files.  Or interrogating a few perps, possible suspects.  Tracking down clues in the alleys.  Bumming intel off a shady cop.  Fuck, he should be in that stupid Nightwing kit that slinks silkily around his bum and―

Zayn scowls into his tea.  He barely registers the bitter aftertaste―like burnt orange peels from a wrung out teabag―of the shit cuppa he spent quite a few pounds on.

Instead, he surveys Liam in the university gardens.  Strict, necessary onversations he tells himself.  Repeatedly.

Liam is playing a daft pick-up game of footy with that brat Harry.  There’s slimy sweat making their clothes stick to their skin, even if it’s a bit cold out.  They’ve lost themselves in trying to one-up the other, developing quite the crowd to cheer along.

And Harry keeps looking at Liam like he’s a glorified hero or summat.  Big field green eyes and painfully wide grin overtake his face.

He was never quite that awful, was he?

Zayn wrinkles his nose at the scene.  The tune on his phone changes, something brilliantly darker: _‘Big boys don’t cry.  They don’t ask why.’_   His lungs itch for a cigarette but he’s already finished off his pack while shadowing Liam through all of his morning classes.

No, he’s not a creeper.  This is all for scientific purposes.  It’s called bloody _reconnaissance_.

Zayn’s teeth continue to drag against his lower lip as Liam uses the hem of his shirt to smear the sweat off his face.  “Bloody hell,” Zayn sighs.

There’s no hiding the definition in Liam’s stomach.  Years of acrobatics can do that.  But then there’s twin hollow valleys that run from his hips into his tracking bottoms.  Flashes of tan skin, snakebite bruises like a constellation of blue and purple.  From all the fights, no doubt.  And sweaty toffee hair below his navel, starting to curl as it leads down towards Liam’s―

“Shit.”

Watching Liam is masochistic.  Boyhood fantasies overrun Zayn, grinding all of his other thoughts to dust.  He’s a bloody idiot for not avoiding this idea altogether.

Questioning a few of Tomlinson’s blokes at gunpoint would be massively more useful to sorting out who this “Bat Killer” is rather than following Liam about.

Sulking, Zayn keeps his eyes trained on Liam.  It’s the principle of it all, he swears.

(No, part of it is the kiss.  _Kisses_.

Because that night in the diner, it felt like Zayn had been suffocating on Liam’s mouth.  As if being anchored to the ocean floor.

It could’ve been a single kiss―he’s still not certain.  It felt like a hundred.  A million, really.  Just the taste of Liam’s lips―that hint of tongue he shyly fed Zayn―kept Zayn underwater.

Being dead was like constantly living in a black hole.  An empty, sucking space.  Nothingness.  But drowning in Liam’s taste was like dying, too―except the black hole warped into a swell of thin clouds.

 _Exactly_.  He can’t wrap his head around it, either.)

Outside of his nights as a masked vigilante, Liam’s life is nothing like Paul’s had been.  It’s _normal_.  Disturbingly so to Zayn.  As if Liam wants to be anything other than the person Paul raised him to be.  There’s a quiet defiance (no, a _determination_ ) about him―

Liam is anything but that small lad with curly hair, crinkled eyes, and the heir to Batman.

Sighing to himself, Zayn circles the rim of his cup with a finger.  For a brief moment, he considers what that life is like―absorbing the normalcy of domesticity.  Being just a simple bloke from the wrong side of Gotham (not that, honestly, there was a _decent_ side of Gotham) with a simple life.

Casual chats with mates over beers, sharing chips while watching a proper footy match on the telly.

Engrossing himself in books for hours―not for anything but a desire to rather than a requirement.

Being in love.

The sweet taste of someone being in love with him.  A flat and a warm body to come home to.

A _home_.

Sharing tea and toast in the morning.  Silly nights in, cozying up on the settee to watch bad cinema.

The sort of life Zayn hasn’t bothered daydreaming about since he was a tiny lad in a dusty orphanage.  Not that Zayn has ever been any good at that―being normal.

Dead men are the opposite of normal.

“So he’s not telling a tale, then?  You really are alive.”

Zayn sniffs her out before she comes into view.  She’s wearing that same overly-sweet perfume she wore when she wanted to be noticed.

By Liam, of course.

But it’s her crutches dragging on the pavement that mostly give her away.  It makes Zayn wince.

He hides his cringe with a weak smile, looking up at her.  She sees through it, he can tell.  But Zayn gazes up at Eleanor like he’s grateful.  As if, to him, she’s still this amazing creature caught in the wilderness that is Gotham.

“Still a bit sneaky, aren’t you?”  Zayn cocks his head back to have a proper look at Eleanor.

The cock of her lips, slipping into a smile, releases something clean in Zayn’s blood.  He hadn’t missed it until now.

Her hair is still mussed up in a bun, tendrils falling around her cheeks.  It’s the way she likes it.  Glasses hanging off her nose.  Along her cheeks, there’s still a hint of rose.  This teenage cotton candy color.  In the specks of light, her doe eyes are wide and curious.

To himself, Zayn sighs.  It’s almost as if the bullet that clown put in her hasn’t changed a bit about who Eleanor Calder is.

Not like the crowbar did for him.

Carefully, Eleanor shrugs.  “Wasn’t trying t’be,” she replies, casually.  She regards him for a second.  “Not like you, I mean.  Checking up on him?”

Zayn leans back, sniffing.  Brushing his tongue along the roof of his mouth, he mumbles, “Surveillance.”

“Of course,” Eleanor chuckles.  “Sorting out your next move?”

“Or summat,” Zayn smirks, lips cocked too high to hide it.

Caught like a mouse.  Bloody Calder and her instincts.

Gently and a bit disjointedly, Eleanor shuffles down into the empty seat next to him.  The lack of grace is apparent―the Joker left his mark.  Not on her wit or brilliance; just her body.

The wind flits and hums, half-drowning the white noise between them.  But they’ve never needed mindless chats between them to communicate.  Subtle looks.  Kind touches.  The slightest lift of one of her eyebrows or the way he’s always rubbing at his mouth with his fingers.

Honestly, Zayn has missed the calm Eleanor’s silence provides.

“You’re back.”

It’s not a redundant inquiry.  No, Eleanor says it with a hint of dry relief.  A breath of empathy rather than solemnness.

“S’ppose so,” Zayn grins.  Absently, his fingers fiddle with the threads of white fringe hanging over his brow.  He needs a cigarette to calm that twitch burrowing beneath his skin.

“Should I bother you with what happened?  Or how?”

Eleanor leans forward, pushing up a curious eyebrow.

Zayn licks the dryness from his lips.  Nerves beat deep in his chest.  He doesn’t―it’s expectant but Zayn’s not quite ready to open up.  To anyone, not even El.

“Don’t wanna chat about it, honestly.”

It’s his polished response these days.  Funny enough, Eleanor nods, hardly looking affronted by his deflection.  He’s always fancied that about her.

“That’s fair.”

“Yeah?”

“I reckon if you’re not putting it on the table…”

“M’ not,” Zayn replies quickly.  Her mouth slides into an even smile and that’s it.  He knows she’ll sort it all out on her own.

“So,” Eleanor drags, teeth biting at her lip, “Vas happenin’?  What are you after Malik?”

Zayn’s mouth twitches with her tone.  A biting laugh doesn’t make t past his teeth.  He looks away, pushing fingers into his hair.  The aftermath of sun burns his retinas.  He doesn’t care.

 _Distractions_ ―he always needs them to slow his brain.

“Just need to, like,” Zayn picks at his lower lip with his teeth, “like clear me name.  I’ve read the rags―”

Eleanor sighs impatiently.  “Not everything printed is the truth―”

“Yeah, well,” Zayn sighs, feeling that tense pinch of skin between his eyebrows tighten, “I’ve had enough printed up about me, haven’t I?  When enough people say the same thing…”  His voice gives out.  In his peripheral, he can see Eleanor studying him.  Hardly judging; just watching.

She gets it.

“Some wanker is knocking people off.  S’bloody everywhere.  And all the bullshit is piling up.  Fingers pointed at the Red Hood,” Zayn starts, his frustration cinching around his words.

Eleanor wrinkles her nose.  “And you don’t want that on you?”

Zayn turns back to her. His ears burn, teeth grinding noisily.  “I didn’t come back to make mates with anyone, El.  Or be some kind of martyr.  I’ve got me reasons.”

“What are they, Malik?”

The loud drum of his heart quiets when that hint of concern flashes through Eleanor’s eyes.  It closes off his anger, temporarily.

“I’m not out turning Gotham into a graveyard, El,” Zayn whispers through his teeth.  “I’m not what they say I am.”

“I’ve heard,” she smiles.  “That bugger Liam seems to be the only one who believes it’s not you.”

Tension sits low in his belly but it never bubbles up.  He can’t quite look her in the eye (not with the blush, his hammering heart) but his lips tip upward.  Zayn wipes the sweat on his palms over his jeans.  He’s meant to interrogate her about anything other than this.

He swears, he’s _not_ in Gotham for Liam Payne.

Tracing his eyes back to the garden, Zayn glares at Harry.

He’s having a right manic laugh over Liam fumbling with the ball.  All big hands in sweaty curls, eyes like ivy and the color of Zayn’s jealousy.

(Christ, when did _that_ happen?)

“He’s a dolt.”

Eleanor snorts, swatting at his arm.  The smack is playful but insistent.  “Be nice.”

“S’true,” Zayn grunts.  “He’s awful.  Undeserving.  He makes all of us look like twats.”

“Get over it,” Eleanor says, her voice far from spiteful.  It’s clear, sobering.  “It is what it is, Malik.  It’s what’s best, plain and simple.  He doesn’t just fill some void.”

Zayn can’t tell.  But arguing that feels elementary.

Instead, his eyes are locked on Harry trying to wrestle the ball from between Liam’s feet.  And how happy Harry makes Liam―a fucking _replacement_.

“Bird boy seems to fair well with him tagging along.”

She hums noncommittally.  “He hasn’t been happy,” Eleanor mentions, turning her eyes on Liam.  Paled sadness is what circles her pupils.  Sympathy in full color.

Across the lawn, Liam cuts past Harry with little effort.  He ruffles Harry’s curls before happily saluting him, jogging up the beaten grass.

Zayn grimaces at the sight.  “Couldn’t tell,” he spits.

Behind her glasses, Eleanor rolls her eyes.  “Not since Paul’s…”  There’s a loaded pause, like she can’t quite get the word out.  Zayn lets a laugh hang at the back of his throat.  Honestly, Paul’s not worth the effort.

“But then you came back.  Something’s changed,” she finishes, tapping her fingers along the table, sorting it all out in her head.  She chews softly at her bottom lip.  “He’s _changed_.  And Liam is doing bloody fantastic at hiding it but I’ve noticed.”

Zayn swallows slowly.  He doesn’t try to read between her words―fear cripples him.

Eleanor snorts next to him.  She keeps her eyes on Liam.  “He’s not gonna say it, but he’s happy to have you back.”

“He doesn’t _‘have me’_ ―”

Eleanor scoffs loudly.  Clucking her tongue, she tosses him a challenging stare.  “You were always shit at hiding your hand when we played poker, mate.  Remember losing miserably to me?”

She shoots him a knowing look.  Zayn pointedly ignores it.  She grins at him like she’s winning an argument, but it’s only a moment.  It passes, like everything else in Zayn’s life.

“I don’t fancy seeing him disappointed,” she whispers a second later.  She directs her eyes at Zayn this time, pinning him.  “Don’t disappoint him, Boy Wonder.  He loves you.”

Her words aren’t soft and cautious―they’re a warning.  Sitting fat and heavy between them, those words are far worse than blunt trauma to the head.

Zayn wants to flee.  Quietly, he’s choking on his next breath.  He didn’t sign up for any of this.  Not one bit of it.

Next to him, Eleanor grins mercilessly.  It’s all a bit smug coming from her; a rarity.  But it’s every bit of the overconfident bird she was as Batgirl.  Chuffed on her own ability to outwit any criminal.

(And Zayn, too, it seems.)

She reaches out, ruffling the mangled sections of white hair at the top of his head.  “Y’look good, Malik,” she comments.  Her fingers stay in his hair, curling and tugging teasingly.  “All grown up.”

Zayn fights at the blush attacking his skin.  Fucking Eleanor Calder.  She’s the only human who’s ever had that sort of effect on him―

Other than Liam.

Stupid bloody boyhood crushes turning into right medical complexes.

“I’ve missed you,” she whispers, overemphasizing each word, “and how easily you can make Liam smile.”

Zayn refuses to respond to that.  True or not, he decides.  Letting it crawl under his skin is nonnegotiable.  He has a purpose here.  A mission.

None of that includes drowning in affection for Liam Payne.

 

+++

 

**Liam**

 

“Oi!  What’s the craic?  The coffee here is quite rank, mate.”

Liam blinks up from the thick global studies textbook balanced perfectly on his knees.  His smile reaches his eyes the moment Detective Horan flops down across from him.

It’s true―there are better coffee shops in Gotham, closer to the university.  Quieter, too.  Nothing like this noisy, overstuffed squat of a coffeehouse in the heart of the city.  The queue here is always long, crowded with business-like people and groggy sixth formers.  And the coffee really is scrummy.  Bottom of the shoe kind of bad.

But Liam needs some of the noise.  The endless sea of unrecognizable faces.  This unique opportunity to be just some faceless university bloke instead of―

 _Liam Payne, heir to the Higgins fortune_.  Not his words, of course.

“Sorry,” Liam says, a bit sheepishly.  His fingers rub at the prickly bits of stubble on his jaw he forgot to shave off before class this morning.

Niall’s smile is disarming.  All straight teeth and chapped pink lips.  His face is paler, dusted with rasps of pale stubble.  It’s sluggish, a bit sleep-deprived but frankly more alive than Liam’s felt the past few months.

“Can’t afford a decent cuppa anymore?”

Liam rolls his eyes.  His own smile feels far from cagey.  Niall’s tone is nothing but teasing.  For a detective, he’s goofy and irresistibly childlike.  A pup parading around with vicious mutts.

“Can’t be bothered with all the looks I get,” Liam replies, halfheartedly.

Niall nods gently.  “Can’t imagine,” he laughs.  “I bet you get a lot of offers to wear the costume in the bedroom too, yeah?”

Liam chuckles, instinct calling him to thump Niall’s shoulder with a fist.  He resists easily.  Niall’s humor tastes like fresh air after being trapped in an airplane cabin over the Atlantic.

Still hiccupping a laugh, Niall passes Liam a steaming cup while taking a healthy gulp from his own.  He sighs contently.

“S’fine,” Niall mumbles.  “Always make sure me cup is a good Irish blend, anyway.”

Wrapping a hand around the cup Niall offers, Liam snorts.  He can sniff out the scent of whiskey from where he sits.  Maybe Niall is every bit of the stereotypical cop after all.

“Any new leads?”

Niall shrugs unevenly, dropping a heavy stack of folders on the table.  They scatter across all of Liam’s revisions.  A kaleidoscope of horror on the tabletop.  Liam reaches for his cup before it tips over in the madness.  “All blood and bodies but no clues,” Niall sighs.  “Forensics is having a shite time at it.”  He ruffles up his rough blonde hair with one hand.

Liam sucks softly on his lip, giving Niall a quick onceover.

It’s easy to spot the bits of strain in Niall’s face.  Under his eyes, there’s heavy rims of dark half circles.  They dull the brightness of his blue eyes.  It makes the paleness of his skin sickly rather than intriguing.

“The Commish is having a right shit-fest ‘bout it,” Niall adds, trying to smile through obvious tension.  T’s all mounting around his eyebrows.  “M’not too fussed, though.  Bad guys like this usually slip up.”

Liam keeps his plump lip planted between his teeth to shade his smile.  Niall wears cockiness like an orange suit―no one can honestly pull it off.

“I’m still looking into all of it.”

Niall barks a gruff laugh.  “Juggling university and jockeying as Gotham’s only hero, yeah?”

“I’m handling it.”

“Couldn’t tell,” Niall says, not an inch of patronizing in his voice.  “Y’look wrecked, mate.”

Liam shoots him an incredulous glare.  But Niall is probably right―Liam is wearing the same rank hoodie for a third day.  It’s gone a bit sour after the second day.  But it covers the unattended bruises all over his skin from patrolling.  And there’s a milk stain on his joggers from sleeping through a cup of tea-making.

Plus, he’s dieting on crisps and energy drinks.  Maybe he looks a bit gaunt?  Worse for wear is probably being slightly polite.

Earlier, he spent half of his Spanish Lit course studying the backs of his eyelids.  Just a short kip, he promises.

“I’m just giving you shit, Payne,” Niall swears with another giggle.  He empties his cup in one go, kicking Liam’s shin under the table, an after-effect of his taking the piss.

Liam’s chest protests when he laughs along with Niall.  Lads like Niall are the kind Liam wishes he could stay mates with.

(Paul always warned him about letting people in, permitting anyone to get too close―because they always end up in the morgue)

Maybe they could’ve been closer―in another life.  One a little less crowded with Paul’s ethics about _‘responsibilities and keeping people at a distance.’_

(keeping people _alive_ )

Bloody fuck, his life is a messed up version of bad nighttime telly program.

“What about this Red Hood bloke?” Niall asks, enthusiasm draining from his voice.  He looks thoughtful for a second.  “Or girl?  Can’t really tell with you mask-wearing-types these days, y’know?”  For a millisecond, Niall looks thoughtful.  Then, aggressively pleased.  “Can’t say I’d be really gutted if it was a bird, though.”

The wriggle of Niall’s eyebrows shifts a happy feeling in Liam’s gut.  Niall is a shamelessly horny lad.

“But, like.  Who knows what you lot really got goin’ on under all that black and―”

“He’s a bloke,” Liam sighs, tickled by Niall’s rambling.  His energy is always so liquidly contagious.

It relaxes Liam, sorts him out, even if his mind helplessly drifts to Zayn.

He can see hazel eyes gone gold like a stroke of afternoon summer sun.  Flicks of brown like dying autumn leaves.  Dark hair muddled with slashes of white.  Soft and rough skin.

Liam shivers and pretends not to acknowledge the way Niall notices it.  The overactive mind of a detective, Liam recalls.  Paul was about the same.

“He’s a bloke,” Liam repeats, lower.  “And a bit of an enigma, I s’ppose.”

Niall nods carefully.  Completely unbothered, he shakes out a sugar packet, dumps it into Liam’s cuppa.  When did he nick it off Liam in the first place?

“Think he’s the one, then?  Offing all the cops and mob types?” Niall asks.

Liam tenses.  He can feel the blood flush from his face, fingers tightening into a fist on the tabletop.  Willing himself into a dull expression is difficult.  He’s unsure how spectacular Niall is at reading body language.  He hopes horrible like all of GCPD.

“No,” Liam replies softly, letting his eyes drop away.  His teeth nearly split his fat lower lip in half.  Evenly quiet, his jaw tense, barely moving, he adds, “I hope not.”

“Me too.”

Liam’s staring at all of the files with their contents spilling out, coffee stains on the spare views of the tabletop.  Counting his breaths, he lifts his eyes for a second, drifting them over Niall.

“To be fair,” Niall continues.  “He wears the symbol of the Bat, right?  It’d just be messy if, y’know, he was a serial killer.  Gotham trusts anyone wearing that symbol.”

Right.  Liam knows.  Maybe it’s why he hasn’t bothered picking up one of Paul’s old kits to patrol in.  He refuses to touch the cape and cowl hanging in the Cave, on display, like a memorial.  It’s too much weight.  Another reason for this city to sink him further.

“Dunno,” Liam mutters, leaning back.  He winces when he stretches too far―a bone or a joint shifting further out of place.  “But I want to trust him.”

“Clever idea,” Niall muses.

“Think so?”

Niall laughs, all bright and choppy.  It’s almost too contagious for Liam not to smile in return.  Niall barrels through Liam’s leftover coffee, even while making faces at the taste.  He’s a good lad with a nice energy.  The kind of mate Liam should want around more often, instead of the brooding, vigilante lot he’s been dicking around with for ages now.

His phone buzzes across the table.

Gently, his thumb unlocks the screen, fingers pulling the soft blue glowing message into view―

 **Oracle:** _‘Got him!  Phone number for now.  U sure u want 2 contact him??’_

Something light and electric ignites in Liam’s belly.  Diffuses right into his system, creating a heady dose of dopamine.  His fingers hover over a clever reply.  Simple words levitate in his head but all the complexities of what he’s chasing eliminate those thoughts.  Blush is already leaving its ugly stain across his cheekbones.

He’s never been this overeager for one person.

For _Zayn_.

“Hey,” Niall says through another soft laugh.  “Wanna go pull a pint tonight?  Sound idea, yeah?  Could be a laugh.  Proper lads’ night out before you patrol and I pretend to sort out all these dead bodies.”

Instantly, Liam feels the unwelcome tug at his gut―to be a proper normal bloke for once.

Pints and banter, laughing at all the senseless things Niall rambles on about.  His mind not bogged down by ‘responsibilities,’ being the lad Paul intended him to be.

But Liam’s eyes skim over the message from Eleanor still hanging on the phone screen.  Old habits and dying hard, right?

“Can’t.  Think I’ve got a dinner date.”

The words rush off his tongue before he has a chance to cycle them through his brain.  He’s mental.  This will never work out.

Niall leans back in his chair, licking out an impressed smirk.  It only makes Liam’s already too-burnt cheeks glow with harsher blush.

“Lucky bird?”

Liam rolls his eyes, snorting.  A nervous hand rubs at the nape of his neck.

“ _Ah_ ,” Niall says, quickly, coughing up a fit.  “Or a lad?”

Avoiding the wide-eyed look Niall shoots him, Liam swipes at his phone.  He lingers before tapping out a quick response to Eleanor.  Closing his textbook, Liam flickers his eyes over Niall.

“Haven’t you some official duties, Detective Horan?  ‘Cause sorting out me love life,” Liam frowns a bit, quite aware he has nothing resembling _love_ or a _life_ currently, “seems a tad boring.  I could ring up a certain Commissioner’s daughter to keep you busy, if you’d like?”

Liam hangs onto the smugness in his tone with a teasing smirk.  Like a countdown, it sets Niall right off.

He’s choking again.  It’s a fit of hacking, Niall watery-eyed and gobsmacked like a child caught with a hand in the biscuit tin.

“Um, that will not be, um, like.  I mean, I-I haven’t got―”

Laughing, Liam waves Niall off.  His smile pushes his cheeks right into his eyes.  Victory.

“See you soon, mate.”

Niall nods, still sputtering.  His cheeks are a blotchy mess of red blush.  It tickles another laugh out of Liam as he stands, packing up his revisions and books.

He doesn’t pull away too far before Niall reaches out, wrapping his fingers around Liam’s wrist.  His thumb pushes right down on Liam’s pulse point.

“Hey,” Niall says, carefully, cheeks still pinked up.  “I mean it―we should have a few pints.  Unofficial and all that.  Proper blokes being, dunno, a bit normal?  Once all of this is sorted out, of course.”

Liam gives him a considering look.  That cagey feeling in his heart returns.  Freedom tastes like Becks and peanuts, having a good laugh with Niall over Graham Norton, or a pub crawl through Gotham.

It’s brief.  Reluctance sets him on a poor journey back to reality.

Leaning in, he frowns.  “Is it ever all sorted?  Is any of this ever really over, bro?”

Niall swallows, his throat muscles moving in a showy motion that answers Liam’s questions without words.

Blinking down at the table, Niall deflates.  His eyebrows lift before he speaks.  “S’ppose not.  But it’s a thought.”

“A good one,” Liam agrees.

“Reckon as long as you’re protecting Gotham―”

“As long as _we_ are, mate,” Liam grins, waiting to release it in full glory until Niall raises his eyes.  His spare hand ruffles up Niall’s already rough hair.  “You do a brilliant job out there, Horan.  First chance we get―pints on me.”

Niall shuffles out a pleased grin for him, nodding.  His fingers uncurl from Liam’s wrist, not before leaving a mark.  Bitten nails leave little reminders in Liam’s skin.  Niall is holding Liam to a promise he hopes he can keep.

One day.  He’ll have a mate like Niall and a life much closer to normal than this one.

Hopefully, he lives long enough to enjoy it.

 

+++

 

**Zayn**

 

Places like this have never been Zayn’s fancy.

It’s a high-rise, posh restaurant in the meat of Gotham.  The air stinks of expensive wine and unfulfilling food.  A full view of the city streams in from a dozen colossal windows wrapped around the restaurant’s interior.  Cloth napkins, silver spoons, smart suits and overpriced gowns burn into his vision.

This is the sort of candlelit living Paul was accustomed to.

But Zayn’s always hated that sort of life.

Beans on toast, tea, and dirty joggers.  Squats in front of the telly for marathons of mindless sitcoms.  Domestic beer and his feet propped up.  Zayn’s a city rat―and places like this frown at him.

A cold sweat crawls over him when he walks in.  He shouldn’t be here.  The looks he gets―loaded with disgust, untrusting curiosity―remind him of why he sticks to his own corners of Gotham.  You’re so far down the food chain there, you can’t afford to look down at anyone else.

“Bullocks,” he grumbles to himself, patting at his clothes.

It’s probably his attire―an old, oversized knit jumper where the sleeves swim down past his knuckles.  A pair of skinnies ripped in one knee.  His hair is a flat mess, bits of white fringe dipping down into the lenses of his black-framed glasses.

(death’s little _welcome back_ gift―shit vision and terrible prescription specs)

( _that_ and the hair, of course)

But Zayn is not here for clever looks.  Or to impress.  It’s a business gathering―plain and simple.  A daft plan of Liam’s, he supposes, to compare notes about the murders and suspects.  Brilliant choice of scenery, obviously.

Public, posh, and prickly.  Leaving Zayn far from in control of the evening.

Zayn could think of a few rooftops they could chat it all out on rather than here.

“Sir, can I help―”

Zayn ignores the front attendant.  Truthfully, he can’t hear a word the bloke says over the rapid-fire noise of his pulse when he glances around the room.

He finds his target on subtle instinct.

Liam comes into focus in soft, clean lines.  Aesthetically, it’s probably the red fuzz of the setting sun that adds to all of Liam’s features.  Strong hands press at his neatly wrinkled button-down.  A clean shave makes his cheeks rounder.  Round brown eyes start to crinkle when his mouth lifts.  His suit jacket is tossed over the back of his chair, as if Liam is trying to play this careless.

Honestly, it’s all charming.

And Liam looks―well, _incredible_.

Zayn stiffens for a second.  It all feels wrong.  Chats about blood and murder shouldn’t include low-lighting.  Or a bottle of red wine at the table.  Cloth napkins and gentle music shouldn’t accompany mutilated bodies.  It’s too intimate.

He isn’t quite fond of intimate things.  They blur too closely to memories he’s refused to get attached to.

“What is this?”

His eyes narrow at Liam.  Chewing his plump lower lip into a red mess becomes an afterthought for Zayn.  A silly coping mechanism.

Liam flushes instantly.  The patchwork smear of pink freckles all over his skin, reaches his hairline and dips below the collar of his shirt.  Instinctively, his hand lifts to ruffle his hair, except it jerks away at the last second.  Like he thought better of it.

As if he smudged a handful of product into it earlier, styling it just to impress Zayn.

 _Christ_.

“Well, it’s um,” Liam stutters, looking around.  He’s glowing pink now.  “Well, it’s like a―”

“A _what_ , Payne?”

Liam flinches at the dip in Zayn’s voice.  He’s absolutely wrecked―his jaw slack, his eyes twitchy.  Sucking in a breath, he replies, “ _Itsadate_.”

Zayn lifts one eyebrow, swallowing slowly like glass is lodged in his throat.  “Slower,” he instructs.

“It’s a date.”  Sweat shines across Liam’s brow.  It’s comfortably cool in here, Zayn notices.  But Liam looks overheated, fingers wrinkling the hem of his shirt and wide eyes scanning Zayn for a reaction.

A quiet passes between them.  It’s heavy and dense.  Just a minute of odd looks, mostly from Zayn.  Liam busies himself fidgeting, a strop blooming around his edges.  Nothing about Liam is registering for Zayn.

So Zayn watches him.

There’s nerves vibrating off of Liam, like ripples in the surface of an ocean.  And he doesn’t quite know what to do with his hands.  His teeth grind along his lower lip, altering the color from pink to white.  He’s flustered and stammering, right in front of Zayn.

(it’s properly adorable, by normal standards―but Zayn is fairly removed from anything _normal_ )

“A date,” Liam repeats, exhaling, softer like an undercurrent.

He deflates when Zayn stays quiet.  His eyes look as if his mind is working through the paces of it all―bad decisions, regret lethal like a snakebite―coupled with all the other things that always makes Liam look like he’s thinking too hard.

Zayn’s mouth wraps around Liam’s last word, as if he’s sounding it out.  It echoes around in his head:  A date.  With Liam Payne.

A _date_ with _Liam_?

It’s all a bit ridiculous―the lush restaurant and this thrumming in his stomach and _Liam_.

He snorts, barely able to contain it, the noise vibrating along his chest and nose.  Trying to hide his face in the low lighting, Zayn can’t wrap his mind around all of this.  And how he’s considering any of it.  He must be absolutely mad to stand here, eyes crinkling behind his glasses while he watches Liam.

Zayn thinks of that Pixies song he’d hum to himself in the quiet of Higgins Manor when he was most afraid―

_‘and you ask yourself―where is my mind, where is my mind, where is my mind?’_

That bite of nostalgia churning in his stomach starts to bubble up.  A hunger for his youth, for days and nights and minutes spent pining over the lad in front of him overwhelms Zayn.  Because this is a dream.

Warped, acidic, so familiar.  Devoid of those fluffy clouds usually associated with dreaming.  Just.  It’s that lost feeling, wandering through the motions of life but feeling a bit _light_.

Liam makes him feel―well, _all of that_.

Focusing, Zayn catches the incredulous look Liam shoots him.  It does him in so simply.

Zayn laughs, pressing his tongue to the backs of his teeth.  It knits to his lungs, leaving him breathless.  He feels like he’s falling―Zayn doesn’t know from what or where to.  But he’s falling.

“Is this you reconsidering?” Liam asks, slow and nervy.

Shaking his head, Zayn takes Liam in.  He absorbs their surroundings.  It’s sickly like one of those rom-coms he’s never been into.  But, secretly, it devastates him like all of those predictable movies do as well.

A bloody date with Liam Payne.

“Yeah, alright,” he concedes, still wheezing a bit from laughter.

Carefully pulling out a chair, he flops down, still watching Liam.  He’s not really waiting on a reaction but―yeah, he is.  Under the haze of laughter, that sticky happiness still hums in his belly.  It’s not supposed to be there.  But the damn sunset is grazing over Liam’s horrific blush, and―

Zayn can’t think of anywhere else to be.

On repeat, he can still hear the song: _‘way out in the water, I see it swimming… where is my mind?’_

“Okay?”

Liam blinks down at him, his fat lower lip chewed swollen.  Zayn considers running over the softness of it with the pad of his thumb―or his tongue.

Daft childhood infatuations.  Bloody fuck.

Some of the color peters out of Liam’s face.  Nervous hands still tug at his shirt but Liam is calming.  Zayn can see it without close inspection.

It takes a second until Liam settles across from him at the table.  He’s staring at Zayn, as if Zayn will flee.  Abandon him to candlelight and untouched wine.  It’s silly.  Liam’s squirming is making Zayn forget the shyness of their childhood.

(though, belatedly, he wishes the setting was different―a dirty rooftop with takeaway containers of curry and kebabs, sharing cups of tea and their usual banter)

(their usual _easiness_ before Zayn died―or whatever)

Zayn grins, leaning on the table, elbows and all.  “Gotham is burning and you’ve invited me on a proper lush date?”

Happily, Liam nods.  Even in the pale lightning, Liam’s freckles show.  For once, that boyish charm is unrestrained.

“That’s the thing,” he starts, a funny little wrinkle forming between his eyebrows, “Gotham is _always_ burning.  But that doesn’t mean I don’t want a date.”

“With me?” Zayn challenges.

“Yeah,” Liam groans softly, lips splitting into an awkward grin.  That wrinkle deepens.  “Starting to regret that part.”  His mouth softens sweetly, as if he has more to add.

But Liam doesn’t.

Zayn studies him, taking in all of Liam’s twitches.  Liam is sheepish and jittery, something he’s never been as Nightwing.  He’s never like this around a crowd or handing some small-time criminal an arse-kicking.  Composure slides off him in this setting.  Somehow, even after Liam stammers while ordering their starters, this side of Liam relaxes Zayn.

Finally, he remembers to enjoy something.

It’s a rarity, but Zayn sinks into every bit of Liam like they were still nothing but Batman’s brats.  Second-string players, clinging for a purpose.

“How’d you track me down?” Zayn finally asks after a second glass of wine.

Liam’s skin is even pinker, if that’s possible.  He looks up through his eyelashes, head bowed to pick at his food.  “Tracker on your mobile.  Back at the diner, I managed it,” he admits, choppy, his voice strained.

“Figured,” Zayn grins.

Sitting up a bit, prouder, Liam adds, “But I sorted out you kept changing the number.  Scrubbing your name from the database.  Had to beg off a favor or two from El to step in.”

“Techno nerd,” Zayn laughs, letting it well up in his cheeks.

Liam echoes him, those crinkles returning in varied depths.  “Quite easy for her.”

A snort tickles Zayn’s nose.  He leans back in his chair, openly smirking.  The rush of adrenaline inside his chest makes this feeling bubble over.  “Can’t really hide from that one.”

“I’ve tried.”  Liam grins like he’s embarrassed.  His freckles stand out against the pinks, even slashes of red creeping all over the bridge of his nose.  “She usually sorts me out.  Bit frustrating.”

Zayn fancies the look of it―Liam’s flustered face.  The crooked angle of Liam’s soft lips.  How easily the wrinkles around his eyes remain like tiny valleys.  Deep pinks blemish his cheeks.  There’s tiny wrinkles along the bridge of his nose when his mouth stretches for a laugh.  Zayn’s right floored by how anyone wouldn’t give Liam a second look like this.

And Zayn can’t stop gaping.  It’s peculiar but honest.  This boy is unabashedly hypnotic.

“You’ve been following me,” Liam says, almost as an afterthought.  He sips at his wine to avoid Zayn’s indignant stare.

Tickled, Zayn nods, anyway.

“Why?”

Out of habit, Zayn licks slowly at his lips.  Nervous fingers push limp white hair off his forehead.  Mouth curling into a smirk, he replies, “What c’n I say?  I like bird watching.”

Liam curls up in a bit in his chair, crinkling his brow.  He’s flustered.  Again.  Easy as breathing.

After a beat, Zayn adds, “Maybe I want t’know you’re not doing anything mental out there, like the Bat did.”

“M’not.”  It’s a short reply, backed by the way Liam drags up his eyebrows.

“Sometimes,” Zayn sighs, not wanting to add more.  “But it crosses my mind.”

“I’m the older one, remember?” Liam laughs, warm and still self-conscious.

“Yeah, well,” Zayn shrugs haphazardly, “I might’ve fancied you a bit, too, so―don’t want anything to happen to me investment.”

It all comes tumbling off his lips.  He’s perfectly blissed on the wine, so, honestly, he blames the bloody alcohol for being such an idiot.  Or it could be the heavy leak of adrenaline buzzing in his system.  Either way, he’s never like this―

Zayn’s learned through all of his training that confessions are left to desperate or guilty people.  Ones bargaining for redemption.  _Keep your mouth shut_.  Lie.  But his bones are afire with _something_ and Liam keeps watching him like he might flee.

Or die again.

It’s Zayn’s only explanation for mouthing off and putting his foot in it.

There’s condensation along his glass that he busies his fingers with.  Lost in distractions.  His eyes flit up for a moment ( _avoid, avoid, avoid_ ) and catch a hint of Liam’s speechless expression.

Of course, the bloody dolt never got it.

But Liam leans across the table, hardly smug about any of it.  Shocked, truthfully.  By his smile, Zayn reckons he’s a bit content, too.  His hand drags the inches separating them but stops short on the table.  Long fingers trace the bottom of Zayn’s glass.

Zayn doesn’t think he ever wants to remember his erratic heart in this moment.

“Really?”

“No.”

“No?”

Blushing, Zayn keeps his eyes low.  “Possibly, mate.”

The obscene rush of ugly pink that assaults Liam’s cheeks just before he licks his lips unwinds Zayn with a shudder.

“Okay,” Liam mumbles.

Zayn wrinkles his brow, absently, hunching his shoulders like his body doesn’t quite know how to react.  But his hand (the bloody thoughtless traitor) wants to curl around Liam’s for comfort.

“Okay,” Zayn grumbles back, ignoring the rattle in his chest.

Silence stretches thin but it feels appropriate.  They’ve not needed words to fill spaces before.

Their entrées come with more wine.  Liam waves the waitress away before she can top them off.  He’s polite about it, of course―but eager, too.  As if he’s recognizing the effects, finally.  And, honestly, Zayn’s a bloody idiot for not ducking out the exit by now.

He listens to Liam fumble and stutter through chats about schooling, his studies.  Keeping quiet is easy―he’s practically been a mute around anyone but a handful of people his whole life.  But his eyes keep focus on Liam’s mouth.  Or his little twitches.  That half-smile he gives when he thinks he’s been boring.

(he’s not; Zayn’s dazed by the inflection in his voice)

( _for fuck’s sake_ )

“This isn’t exactly where I wanted to be.  How I’ve fancied me life to be.”  Liam looks flushed.  Again, the wine.  Or the lighting.  But, in even softer decibels, he continues, “I keep thinking about a life without Gotham.  Something proper quiet or… different?”

“Different,” Zayn repeats in that same hushed voice.

Liam nods eagerly.  “A small, modest house, y’know?  Simple.  I fancy a life not so bogged down with,” Liam struggles for the words before sighing, “Away from all of this.  Possibly, even, a few children?”

Zayn sucks in his lower lip to stop a chuckle.  He can picture it.  “A right domestic lad, eh?”

Liam goes a harsh red but doesn’t back down.  “Haven’t got it all sorted out but I’d like that.  To just be,” the pause is loaded, as if Liam’s timid to voicing this out, “a regular lad for a bit or summat.”

Zayn chews at his lip.  It doesn’t disfigure his smile the way he hopes.  “You sound like a movie plot, mate.”

It’s not mocking; just banter.

Liam shrugs at him.  He doesn’t seem to care about Zayn’s opinion.  So unwilling to bin his own dreams for someone else’s.  For the life Paul handed them on one of those fancy silver trays serving up Gotham’s finest in this posh restaurant.

Zayn envies that trait.  Hope is something he chucked in the bin ages ago.

“Well, you’re not hard up for pounds,” Zayn comments, looking around their environment.  His tone edges on a bit cold.  “Do what you want.”

“It’s not,” Liam starts, his conviction dying a little.  He’s staring down at his plate.  “S’not that easy.  Or about money.  It’s a thought, I s’ppose.  Just what I want but I can’t really abandon me life.  Or my―”

“Responsibilities?” Zayn offers, bitter.

Liam sniffs out a response, still not looking up.  Pale lighting kissing off his eyelashes smooths shadows down his cheeks, spidery shapes over the round of skin and muscle.

Noise clatters through the restaurant but Liam stays quiet.  Weirdly withdrawn and quiet.

Zayn wants to snarl at him.  Thanks Paul Higgins―accountability mashed with _fear_ is a terrible cocktail to swallow.

“Sounds like y’ forgot your responsibility is to y’self.  Least that’s what I learned from our precious Batman,” Zayn says gruffly.

Liam lifts his chin, squinting at Zayn, concern tightening his jaw.  “You hate him.”

“Hated,” Zayn bites back.  It comes off nonchalant.  “Someone did him in before I could let ‘im know what’s been on me mind.”

“But―”

Zayn waves him off with a hand.  It’s a topic he has no desire to indulge in.  “Not in the proper mood for you t’be me shrink, Li.  I’ll make peace.”  He scrubs a hand through his hair, wrecking what’s left of its flatness.  His thoughts knock about too loudly in his head―gears grinding out of place.

Carefully, Zayn flashes Liam a soft look.  “Don’t s’ppose you fancy a subject change?”

Just as easily, Liam’s features shift into something smiley and crinkly.

“Sure,” he says, chewing around his food.  “What’s with the glasses?”

Zayn half-groans, half-laughs but he goes with it.  He’s not about to beg off the way Liam lights up at his embarrassment.

“Do I look horrible?”

“Hardly,” Liam grins, the curve of his smile reaching up.  “Wicked, I think.”

“Shut it,” Zayn giggles.  Warmth infects his insides in the most inappropriate ways.

“Sort of reminds me of that one bloke from Metropolis Paul used to get on with.  Um, it’s―”

“Clark Kent,” Zayn says under his breath.

Liam snaps his fingers happily, eyes squinting up into crinkled messes.  “Him!  Y’look a bit like that bloke.  Not quite as _fit_ but―”

Zayn scoffs, still laughing, the mild bite of jealousy’s teeth working into his skin.  “Quit taking the piss.”

Liam shrugs, leaving Zayn to unconsciously adjust his glasses on his nose.  The fond stare he gets from Liam unravels the bits of him knotted up over what neither of them can fix.

It’s over tea and desserts―belly full and skin overwarm―that Zayn takes stock of another face in the crowd.  In a snug corner of the restaurant.  A back table, near the kitchen, proper crowded by shadows and terrible lighting.  An easy getaway spot, Zayn reckons.

All the mob-types like that sort of unapproachable distance from humanity.  In the dark, detached.

Even in the distance, Zayn can still make out the sharp lines of Louis’ profile.  His usual security detail―bulky and moody lads, scowling―crowded around him.  A round table stuffed with blokes in cheap suits and, still, Louis looks a bit―alone.

He’s a bit to himself.  Nursing a dead and watered-down high ball of gin.  The lime is squeezed dry on a napkin.  Louis is flippant with his expression, divvying out droll looks every time a new face passes his table.  There’s something cold and empty behind his clear blue eyes.

As heartless as Louis Tomlinson is, he looks as if he could use a mate.

Shamelessly, Zayn knows he’s not one of those.  To anyone.  Especially not spoiled, superficial future crime bosses.

He needs Louis for contacts, the occasional arsenal of heavy weapons.  Not casual chats about their _feelings_ over tea, crying over scones.

“S’ppose even the devil needs a meal.”

The bite of something dark in Liam’s voice makes Zayn’s attention drift.  It lurches deep in his chest, his thoughts scrambling for a way out of his head.  Scanning the grimace in Liam’s expression, Zayn cocks his head.  Something vaguely like a chuckle blurts past his lips.

“Hardly the devil.  Harmless, mostly,” Zayn comments, risking another glance at Louis.  “Tomlinson is a small fish.”

“The son of a shark is still a shark,” Liam growls lowly.  It’s implicit in is tone―Liam is quite far from a fan of Tomlinson’s.

Zayn’s mouth twitches, corners peaking.  It’s caught between a smirk and a tight-lipped scowl.  Louis isn’t exactly a mate―but he’s barely the walking definition of the reputation this city labels him with.

Louis, on his best days, is nothing more than a venom-less snake.  On its own, it’s still built to create fear in people.  A bad reputation.  But Louis is innocuous.  He’s a victim of a name―not the person underneath the label.

Zayn gets that.  People are hardly the ghosts that haunt them.

“He’s not all bad,” he says, shrugging, uncommitted to the conversation.  He’s going for casual.

Liam curves a thick eyebrow at him.  It’s a question.  But it’s barbed with a thick accusation Liam doesn’t utter.

Zayn is used to avoiding inquiries―he doesn’t owe the world (or Liam) a damn thing.  But, admittedly, the curiosity wadding behind the burnt caramel of Liam’s eyes could persuade him.

Liam’s intense glare, darted in Louis’ direction, voids all of those considerations.

“Tomlinson has his fair share of blood on his hands.”

Zayn scoffs quietly.  “None he put there himself.”

Liam squawks and Zayn feels the tug of a smile at his lips again.  Liam thinks exactly like Paul―all black and white.  But Zayn loves living in the grey.  He hasn’t met anyone yet who doesn’t have a spoonful of bad to go along with all the good they shovel out.

Except for Liam.

It’s bloody frustrating trying to pin down any of unforgivable Liam’s flaws.

Liam exhales softly, finishing the dregs of his tea.  “His father has done enough to muck up his name,” he says, barely audible over a nearby table of socialites pissed on champagne.  “Nothing good can come from―”

“We’re not who raises us,” Zayn interrupts.

It’s not meant to be anything but words.  Except, it’s coated in ages of frustration.  Resentment, pronounced by the hiss in Zayn’s voice.  It’s a reminder Zayn isn’t in Gotham to purify his soul.  To find new mates.  Or to quench a teenage lust for some bloke too good for him.

Gotham is about Batman and the scars he left all over Zayn.  The Joker, too.

A nervous hand stretches sideways across the table.  Fragile fingers, thick with callous but so soft, thread between the gaps of Zayn’s fingers.  It’s a fuse, lit by Liam’s thumb tracing the skin between Zayn’s knuckles.  An anchor, rooting Zayn.  Weighing him to this feeling, this moment.

Fundamentally, _this_ should be enough.

But the _rat-tat-tattle_ of Zayn’s heart, thick behind his ribs, warns him that it’s just a continuation.  It’s an _‘almost but not quite there’_ sort of feeling.

“We’re not,” Liam says, hushed.  “Who raises us, that is.  None of it.”  The swell of his smile dislodges what Zayn has left of focus.

The flame licking off the candle at the center of the table catches on Liam’s irises.  Zayn can almost breathe Liam’s scent―a musky citrus scent, like a clean tide.

Zayn finally lets the edge give way.  His fingers knot around Liam’s.  It all collects on his lungs until his mind buoys around the kind of life Liam wants.

For a moment, he imagines it―a quiet existence.  Sleeping off his sins, curled and bunched in Liam’s arms, nose pressed to Liam’s throat to inhale his heat.  A son or daughter, charging into his bed, laughing uncontrollably in his ear.  Sunlight and toast replacing grey skies and cigarettes.  A life that tastes like happiness rather than the pollution of Gotham.

Bullocks.  It’s just a dream.  And Zayn quit sleeping the second he crawled out of his own grave.

“I get it.”

“Do you?” Zayn wonders, to himself, mostly to Liam.

Liam bites over his lip, considering.  He gives a partial shrug.  “I _want_ to get it.”

Zayn gives a pathetic laugh.  “That’s better than nothing,” he comments, eyes spanning over their hands at the center of the table.  Their fingers keep shifting for a tighter grip.

Anchoring them to whatever destination is available.

“Always thought you were quite fit,” Zayn mumbles, inconvenient blush assaulting his cheeks.  “Aesthetically.”

“Dunno what that even means, mate,” Liam giggles, his own twin splatters of blush lit nicely under the candle.

Zayn snorts, shaking his head.  He cocks his head, to admire, not to be condescending.  Liam looks ready to switch into a stammering bloke again so Zayn gives him a lenient smile meant to ease it all off.

(not that he minds it anymore―Liam’s inability to be a proper charmer or just a filthy slag trying to get into Zayn’s trousers)

A pink tongue chases the dryness from Liam’s lips; accidental, of course.  Zayn rolls his eyes.

“So what do we call this, then―?”

The rest of the words settle unceremoniously back in Liam’s throat when a shadow falls over their table.  Zayn looks up first, eyebrows knit together.  He almost sniffed the stranger out by tarty cologne alone.

Louis stands over them, smirking.  Without much effort, Zayn’s blood runs cold.

There’s a haziness in Louis’ eyes, like he’s pissed on a bit too much gin.  His lips are half-cocked, the thickness of his stubble giving him more age than he actually has.  He’s lazily looking down at their hands.  Inspecting, possibly, but with the kind of lethargic attention a drunk gives a piece of toast.

Peeling away first, Zayn drags his hand back under the table.  Liam’s hand is sat in the same position, curling around dead air.  A flash of hurt stains his face before he steels it away.

Always a good soldier.  Never let an enemy inside your head.

“Quite the sight, eh?” Louis slurs, bubbling with laughter.  He sniffs, glaring at Liam, then Zayn.  “Have we got ourselves a proper romantic getaway?”

Zayn snarls, fingers itching for his Glock twins.  Unfortunately, they’re not available.  Bloody Liam Payne and unearthing Zayn’s need to be _civilized_ while out with him.

“Tommo,” he hisses, narrowing his eyes.

Louis lifts a dismissive hand, still curling with a shaky laugh.  He makes a show of throwing a hand over his chest, swooning.

“Didn’t expect this,” he says.  “Not from you, Malik.  ‘M impressed.  Appalled, but definitely impressed.”

Across the table, Liam’s grinding his teeth.  His eyes flicker over each of Louis’ security detail, probably mapping out an attack.  Counting his options, sizing up his targets.

Zayn’s done the same, only thirty seconds quicker.

Louis leans in, stumbling a bit.  Sweaty flops of fringe fall down into his eyes.  He sighs, hissing, “Look at you, Malik.  Going on the pull and landing the fucking proper heir to Paul Higgins’ throne.  Brilliant!”

Zayn’s eyes blink small until he’s squinting at Louis.  In his peripheral, he’s watching Liam, too.

He thinks Liam might react.  Zayn knows he would.

But Liam stays patient, biting out his time by chewing at his lower lip.  His fingers have curled into a tight fist at the center of the table.  It accelerates Zayn’s heart just a bit―that Liam might strike when he’s unprepared.

“And _you_ ,” Louis accuses, turning to Liam.  There’s a looser curl to Louis’ mouth when he speaks.  “Poor taste, Mr. Payne.  I expect better than courting some petty commoner over tea and pastries.”

The wobble of Liam’s throat when he swallows gives him away.  A sweet bead of sweat drips from his temple.

Zayn swallows back the harsh _‘Liam’_ he wants to whisper over the table.

Louis snorts, loud and incredulously.  “Looking cozy, you two,” he cackles.

The burly men circling him chuckle too, out of obligation, no doubt.

“Sod off, Tomlinson,” Zayn spits, squaring his shoulders.

Louis wobbles when he turns to glare at Zayn.  He’s poor-footed, looking flushed from alcohol, sloppy from the weight of his own demons.  His hand pushes the hair off his forehead but it flops right back.  He doesn’t seem to care, either way.  Louis is too amused by Zayn’s face.

“You’ve gone quite mental, have you not?” Louis snarls, huffing through his nose.  “Thinking you fit anywhere here in this city?  Especially with some billionaire’s adopted lost _puppy_ ―”

“Fuck you,” Zayn snaps before Liam can get it off his tongue.

A tense silence starts to filter into the restaurant, loads of eyes beaming in on their table.  It’s painfully obvious the night’s interest has turned in on them.  The kind of attention Zayn loathes.

Louis sniffs, trying to fix his tie.  Coordination fails him but he gives it a go anyway.  He’s trying to gather his words, Zayn can tell.

“Couldn’t just be a pathetic piece of dirt on the bottom of Gotham’s shoe, could you?  Had to go out and be noticed by fancying a bloke―Gotham’s prodigal son at that,” Louis says, heat licking at his voice.

Liam’s cheeks turn a sharp shade of red, his eyes shifting into slits of anger.

Zayn stays steadfast.  If he gives enough away, they’ll be sorted too easily by Louis’ guards.

Count the seconds.  Plan the next move.  Paul Higgins was good for something, Zayn supposes.

“Better off with street scum than daddy’s watered down replacement―”

“And where is _your_ father, Malik?”

It’s meant to rattle Zayn, he recognizes.  It’s meant to sting, to goad.  But Zayn’s buried that side of himself ages ago.  Longing for a place to belong doesn’t include weeping over his parents, anymore.

(Not unless he thinks too hard about it―which he _doesn’t_.)

“Dunno,” Zayn shrugs, leaning back, lips turning up expressively.  “S’ppose your father will meet up with him soon, yeah?”

Precision and accuracy fall in Louis’ favor when he slams a hand down on their table.  Impact knocks around the dishes, tips over Liam’s empty wine glass.

But Louis leans in, lips molded into a thin white line.  His brow is rumple with rage.  Every gin-soaked breath from his mouth attacks Zayn’s face until he pulls back, grimacing.

“You’re chatting loads of shit, lad,” Louis squeezes out.  “But me family runs Gotham, got it?  Pony up for a ride, Malik.  There’s a lot of bodies piling up ‘round here.  Don’t be one of them.”

Zayn swallows, bile starting to wretch up from his belly.  _Christ_.  One bullet.  He could lay the prick out with one warning shot and be done with it.

One of the heavy guards wrings an arm around Louis’ chest, drawing him back.  There’s too much attention on them now.  It’s the last thing Louis (and Liam) can afford.

So Louis goes willingly, glaring at Zayn for a sharp second before turning his eyes on Liam.

“Be careful,” he hisses, struggling against the pull of an arm twice his size.

Liam’s cheeks hollow, a deep exhale leaving his nose.  He barely watches the back door Louis is hauled out of.  But he hasn’t given a single glance at Zayn, either.  He’s staring into nothing.  A bit lost in his own head.

Zayn’s been there.

And it sinks in―bloody fuck, he’s gone and mucked it all up.

A life with Liam, peace and serene, is just a dream.  He doesn’t do well with dreams.  Actually, he doesn’t think he deserves the kind of promise dreams provide.

 

+++

 

**Liam**

 

“You can’t keep going on the piss and leaving me sat here all the time.”

Liam sighs to himself, fingers curling around an Eskrima.  He secures it into the slot on his back, the skin between his eyebrows crinkling when he chances a look at Harry.

A very pouty, having-a-typical-strop Harry.

Moments like this remind Liam of being sixteen―of being too immature to recognize the things Paul did to keep him out of harm’s way.  And how horrendous his attitude was probably back then.  He wasn’t quite this much of a prat, was he?  The thought encourages a warm feeling in his chest.  He’d have to ask Paddy someday.

“It’s called _patrolling_ , Haz,” Liam corrects him, brushing spirit gum over the inside of his mask.  “And you’re _not_ going.”

“Why not?”

Liam’s shoulders deflate.  He’s a second or two from spouting off _‘because I said so’_ but, alternatively, it dawns on him that this is not some drama series on the telly.  This whole conversation feels a bit trivial.

“Stay in, Haz,” Liam demands, but his voice is on the edge of lighthearted.  “Study.  Stay sat on the sofa and watch films.  Be _normal_ ―”

“I am normal,” Harry fusses, petulant-like.

“―and find a way to have some sort of life outside of Gotham,” Liam finishes, ignoring him.

In the back of his mind, Liam can hear the echo of _‘because I can’t’_ wanting to tack itself onto his words.  He dismisses it.  Accepting his role (whether voluntary or shoved upon) has kept him from going mad.

Gotham _needs_ him.

(Liam is almost certain Paul has had those same thoughts―more than once―affixed to his daily routine until all he knew was the cape and cowl.)

When Liam fixes his eyes on Harry, he’s met with a significantly sad gaze.  As if Harry’s more disappointed in Liam’s thoughtfulness rather than being told to stay behind.

“You can’t always handle this alone,” Harry chides.

“I can make do.”

Harry scoffs, the little puff of breath leaving his lips whisking stray curls from his face.  There’s still a sadness behind his eyes but he’s covering it with stubborn determination.

“It’s not _just_ your job.”

Liam laughs, all of it a bit troubled and frustrated.  “That’s the thing, Haz,” he says, affixing his other Eskrima to his back.  “It’s not a job.  There’s no wages in this choice we make.  No benefits.  Won’t be going off on a fantastic holiday and a nice mass of pension once this is done.”

A long sigh flits past Liam’s lips.  He glares down at his hands, waiting on the shakes to subside.

“Can’t go enjoying life if you’re crippled or someone’s offed you.”

Harry pulls a face, his strop back in full privileged grace.  “But Paul―”

“Is dead,” Liam finishes, a little less tactful.  Blunt, maybe, but Liam recognizes it’s become a necessity.

Instantly, Harry pales.  But he gives a sharp nod, as if he’s just been waiting for Liam to say it out loud.  A confirmation that, distantly, they’re on their own.  The rules have changed.

Another sigh breaks Liam’s lips.  He keeps careful eyes on Harry, their silence turning uncomfortably thick.  He could sit Harry down over a kettle and Paddy’s tart lemon biscuits, hash it all out until they’re a sopping mess of tears and mourning.

But that’s not how Liam imagines Harry will get on.

(and, secretly, he’s just not ready to be fussed over trying to repair Harry―not when he’s a sack of broken glass disguised as a ‘brotherly’ figure for the lad in front of him)

“Go on,” Liam tries with a bent smile, “Have at it with your Xbox.  Or a good book.  I’ll have a go at the city for a few hours.  Nothing to be pressed over.”

Harry stands stiff, considering.  After a beat, he rolls his eyes and stomps away towards the lifts.  He’s brilliant at remaining in that petulant state for a few hours.

It’s the life of a sixteen-year-old, innit?

Gravity unsettles Liam once Harry’s out of sight.  All of the stilled, heated air in his lungs exhales.  He leans against his motorcycle for support, needing a moment to recover from managing a role he’s unprepared for―an authority figure in Harry’s life.  Paul’s cheap replacement.

It’s a brutal feeling.  One day, he hopes Harry appreciates it.  Or, at least, learns from Liam’s mistakes.

“It’s a right shame he’s not gone into acting or drama club.”

There’s a saying―something about chills and ghosts having a nice walk over your grave.  Some bit like that.  There’s a sharp sting of ice all along Liam’s spine, up his forearms, lifting the short hairs on the nape of his neck.

When he looks up, Zayn slinking out of the shadows in a corner of the Cave, Liam thinks it’s so appropriate.  There’s a nice grave plot waiting for him somewhere in Gotham and Zayn’ll be the lad that sees him into it.

Zayn smirks, playing with the zip of his dirty brown leather jacket.  Liam wants to groan and laugh at once, smile a bit too.  He does, unconsciously, his face probably looking grossly ridiculous.

If Zayn notices, he doesn’t make a sound about it.

“He’ll give those other movie twats a nice run for their money,” Zayn adds.

“Think so?”

Zayn snorts, his spare hand catching in the white fringe of his hair, disappearing into the darker bits.

After Liam’s heartbeat slows, he glares at Zayn.  Sizes him up―full-on Red Hood gear, a pair of matching firearms bulking out his jacket, heavy boots clunking on the floor as he walks―for a long minute before biting into his lower lip.  Curiosity falls victim to accusation, everything in his head running together.

“How’d you get in?”

Again, Zayn smiles widely, shrugging carelessly.  “Reckon the Cave still likes me.”

“Doubtful.”

A rush of air escapes Zayn’s mouth.  He strolls around, slotting himself right back into this environment.  As if he’d never left.

As though Paul hadn’t buried his body not five hundred yards from this spot.

“I’ve still got access, I s’ppose,” Zayn murmurs, stealing glances at the Batmobile, the array of weaponry hung near a wall.

Liam continues to chew at his lip.  Taking his eyes off Zayn would be a mistake―it’s his excuse for staring, actually.  Zayn’s fringe droops a bit over his brow, stubble all under his jaw making him look warmer than he is.  The awful lighting in the cave lends to making Zayn’s eyes glow, like the long flames of a good bonfire.

All gold weaved into russet, a proper spark about them.

Liam’s gone a bit cross-eyed trying to settle into how much he appreciates Zayn’s beauty.  For fuck’s sake, he’s never been a man of staunch priorities, okay?

“Computer,” Zayn calls, smiling.  “Who am I?”

_‘Zain J. Malik.  Born 1993, Gotham.  Former Robin.  Deceased, aged―’_

“Alright, alright,” Zayn groans, his voice overloud to drown out the rest.  “Think we can manage from there.”

Liam swallows, watches the way Zayn remains casual, going for an easiness that Liam can’t manage.  Instead, Liam feels a bit raw, unnerved by Zayn right here.

(back in the Cave, in his life, slotting himself so perfectly into that massive gap in Liam’s heart)

“What are you doing here?”  He chokes out the inquiry, his voice raw and vulnerable.  There’s no hiding his concern.

Zayn streaks a gloved hand over the sleekness of the Batmobile.  The squeak is distracting, but hardly enough that Liam doesn’t miss the way Zayn’s brow lowers.  It’s a thoughtful look.  Liam knows it.

“I told you,” Zayn starts, his voice turning sinful as his lips curl mischievously, “I like bird watching.”

Liam groans, shaking his head.  It’s pitifully charming.  He can’t remember when Zayn became so obnoxiously confident―not that he doesn’t fancy it.  No, it’s the Zayn that came out (every few clicks) ages ago, whenever he won at a video game or could outrun Liam on the rooftops.

“Sod off,” Liam laughs.  “Could’ve done that bit anywhere.”

Zayn hums, tilting his head.  “Might’ve wanted an up-close-and-personal experience, babe.”

The drip in his voice spreads over Liam like kerosene this time.  He just needs a match.  The uncomfortable tightness of his suit leaves little to an imaginative lad when his cock plumps just a bit.  He shifts away to hide from Zayn’s view.

“Also,” Zayn sighs, his smile drooping.  His brow wrinkles up.  “I thought maybe you’d be more inclined to chat with me face-to-face if _I_ gave it a go first.  I mean, after a few nights ago―”

Liam stiffens, again.  A hardness returns to his expression, one he can’t shake.  He’s done a right good job of putting off musing over Louis and Zayn’s spat.  All the words tossed out, the way his knuckles ached for hours after.

How much he hated them both in that moment.

And how _disappointed_ he was that his silly night of _trying_ to chat Zayn up over wine and a posh dinner had gone sour so easily.

“It’s nothing.”

(the bite in Liam’s voice says otherwise, but he’s not one to mince pleasantries with the truth)

Liam watches the steely blank look on Zayn’s face.  The way his throat works, swallowing around words instead of saying them.  There’s an emptiness on the rim of his eyes, but just underneath Liam can see something heavier.

Unfortunately, he can’t name it.

It does a proper job of troubling him more than he wants.

“Is that what you wanted?” Zayn asks, circling the other end of the Batmobile.  “A life outside of Gotham?”

The tone of his voice leans more towards honest curiosity rather than mocking.  Zayn’s not having a laugh at him.  The long sweep of his eyelashes as he watches Liam, too many meters away, distracts Liam just enough that he forgets his priorities.

“Doesn’t matter,” he blurts.

Zayn’s teeth catch his tongue before he can reply.  He nods, once, peeling his hand off the Batmobile’s paint.

Awkward silence (not like the one they shared as teens, the one that poured off them in waves of comfort) sits dense in the air for a moment.

Liam wants to shake it all off.  Kick it down a drain.  Be done with… all of it?

He doesn’t know.  It stings all through his head like one of those brain freezes from an ice lolly―the kind that incapacitates you for a whole three seconds.

“I’ve got to patrol,” he finally says, hopping on his motorcycle without giving Zayn another look.

“Sick,” Zayn says, a half a beat later.

It takes Liam five seconds―after he’s cut on the engine and revved it―to notice the shift in weight on his bike.  To feel one arm curl around his waist like it’s meant to be there.

(it is, it really is)

“What are you―?”

Zayn waves him off with a bit of shaky casualness.  He’s already tugged on his red helmet, stretching out to wrap his other arm around Liam’s middle.

“Bird watching,” he says by way of an answer.

Liam’s brow crinkles into an endless fit of waves.  His teeth tug on his bottom lip.  He can’t tell if Zayn is watching him behind his mask but―

Well, he _thinks_ Zayn is.  And it unnerves a new set of fizzy feelings in his stomach.

“You need me around,” Zayn mumbles, leaning his chest into Liam’s spine.  “For safety.”

“I don’t need―”

Zayn scoffs, the noise coming out like an arrogant laugh.  But he feels relaxed, happily pressed along Liam.  Winding his arms tightly around Liam like it’s for _Liam’s_ safety rather than his own.

“Whatever,” Liam sighs.  He fixes his mask into place, adjusting the whiteout lenses.  “Don’t feel like arguing with you, mate.”

“Cause you know I’ll win?” Zayn asks, smugly.

 _Yes_.  Liam refuses to answer, though.  It’s not a safe idea, not with his head spinning out of orbit.  Or how he’s finding himself comforted by Zayn’s warmth, the fast build of arousal pouring through him when Zayn’s strong arms pull a bit tighter around him.

“Hold on,” Liam grunts.

Bloody stupid choice of words, mate.

A short gasp pries his lips apart when Zayn weaves one arm tight around Liam’s chest, his spare hand sinking down between Liam’s legs.  It skims the meat of Liam’s thigh, fingers pressing in, searching.  They wiggle (the fucking tease) before cupping around Liam’s groin.

“Like this?”

Liam’s tongue presses solid against the roof of his mouth.  Zayn’s fingers spread around Liam’s fattening up cock, his thumb tracing the spine of Liam’s prick.  The tips of his finger wriggle further down to brush against Liam’s balls and―

“Christ.”

Zayn hooks his chin over Liam’s shoulder.  The helmet hides everything―but Liam’s pretty damn sure Zayn is smirking.

“Are we good?”

Liam exhales slowly, trying to wiggle into a comfortable position.  But Zayn’s hand chases his every move, keeping firm around Liam’s erection.  Another inappropriately sharp noise flees Liam’s bitten lips.

“You’re gonna―”

“Thought you said we were going on patrol,” Zayn says, like he’s bothered by Liam’s lack of coordination.  His inability to _focus_ with Zayn’s palm pressing firmly over his twitching cock.  “Cause if we’re not, if it’s all the same to you, I could be―”

Liam growls under his breath.  “Ready?”

Zayn cackles, nodding.  His hand shifts a bit, molding around the base of Liam’s prick.  Liam makes a face, his cheeks scalding with blush.

“I like it fast, if I’m honest,” Zayn says, his voice carrying over the roar of the engine.

Liam groans under his breath, righting the bike, kicking his feet up.  “Just be quiet, you donut,” he mumbles just before launching them down the long, dark drive towards the surface of Gotham.

He’s no bloody idea how he’s going to focus on driving when Zayn’s hand keeps stroking him into a maddening frenzy.

Then again, it bubbles in Liam’s core until he feels quite lovely.  Losing control.  Being one foot off the ledge and ready to dive into the abyss of madness.

That’s how Zayn makes him feel―out of fucking control.

 

+++

 

The city screams by them in a fit of darkness, fog, and street lamps winking by their eyes like artificial neon-orange stars.  Liam gives it no mind―he’s been on this side of watching Gotham before.  Zipping down the nearly-empty streets.  Watching the world go full-tilt as he bends a corner.

Pretending this dying city is slipping between his fingers rather than swallowing him whole.

But the constant pull of Zayn’s arms around him makes him feel like he’s floating.

His suit is skintight, hardly any give to it, so Zayn’s fingers fit between the spaces of Liam’s ribs, another hand around Liam’s thigh, slinking up an inch or two every few beats.  His thumb is tracing mindless circles over the hypersensitive bits between Liam’s legs―Liam’s cock still fat and tangled in his suit, leaking into the fabric.

Liam throttles fasters down the streets―destination: _nowhere_.

Anywhere, actually.

With Zayn clinging to him, he’d speed off to wherever.  He could run away.  Never look back.

“The harbors?” Zayn shouts.

Liam shakes his head.

“Crime Alley?”

Again, Liam jerks his head side to side.  The wind whips over his cheeks, cold and ugly, but he leans into it.  Hurls them down a few more empty streets without a clue where to stop.

(or maybe never stopping, if he’s being honest)

“A bit mad, innit?” Zayn asks, still lifting his voice over the roar of the engine.  “Just driving?”

“Scared?”

Behind Liam, Zayn laughs, the noise caught in his helmet, still carrying enough for Liam to hear.  His hand shifts up Liam’s chest, smoothing over a pec for a healthy squeeze.  Absently, Liam eases into the touch and scoots back until his arse is pressed to Zayn’s crotch.

(It’s not relief, he swears, swimming around him when Zayn’s stiffy pokes happily along Liam’s bum.)

(okay―it _is_ relief, the shock of embarrassment paling a bit)

“Have at it, Boy Wonder,” Zayn teases.  “I’ve got no plans.”

For some daft reason, Zayn’s words tug a goofy smile over Liam’s mouth.  A breathless laugh stumbles past his lips while they lean into each other.  _Out of control_ , he reminds himself.  It’s all he wants to feel.

The night keeps shrieking around them―the wail of a banshee after midnight―but it’s no louder than their heartbeats in this very moment.  The twin machine gun rattle behind their chests is enough to make Liam go faster―navigation long forgotten.

He’s swallowing a breath of muggy night air, Zayn’s chin digging pleasantly into his shoulder.  One artful hand smoothing over the material of Liam’s suit, fingers painting across his muscles until they shiver.  Liam wants to laugh to himself―his kit is made of Nomex but every inch of it feels ready to catch fire.

“Mental, innit?”

Zayn uses his leverage, towing Liam closer.  If there’s any fight left in Liam, he can’t find it.

“A bit,” Liam says, as if he understands how Zayn’s brain works.  He gets it.  Sifts through all his synapses and his fucked out neurosis just to piece together Zayn Malik.

A brilliant lad, no matter how hard he hides it.

“Tighter,” Liam chokes, trying to make it sound like a warning.  He belts them further down a street.

“You sure?” Zayn teases.

Wincing to feign a smile, Liam nods.  He leans into the wind, feels Zayn move with him.

“Can I ask―”

The familiar blip in Liam’s ear―his com-link coming to life―interrupts any words Zayn’s ready to spout off.  It makes Liam suck in a sharp breath this time, eyes scanning the wastelands of Gotham.  The moon has dipped behind a valley of weirdly-shaped clouds, leaving everything in this dingy city a bit darker.

“ _Nightwing_.”

It’s Eleanor.  Fuck.  He’s forgotten she’s always watching, listening.  Keeping tabs on him.  The one person outside of Paddy (and _maybe_ Zayn) he’d never be cross with for doing so.

“Oracle,” Liam replies, short and serious.

He wonders how much she’s heard― _seen_ , really―and what she’ll no doubt take the piss out of him about later on over a strong brew.

There’s a smile in her voice when she comes back over his earpiece, like she’s too clever for her own good.

“Having a night out?”

Liam sighs, cheeks pinking up.  He blames all of that on the cold whip of night air, how fast he’s barreling through the streets.  But he dips his chin just a little, protecting his face from Zayn’s view.

“Having a bit of a patrol or summat.  Fancy a coffee soon if you’re up for it?”

Eleanor giggles.  “Hardly one to intrude.  I’ve not had a proper threesome and will not be starting my wild adventures into S&M and mild shades of BDSM with you and―”

Liam clears his throat, sounding a bit of a strangled cat in his own head.  His cheeks are flaming now and his heart kicks his chest in protest.  Zayn’s arm has gone looser around his chest and he wonders, like a mad man, if possibly Zayn is clued in to how obvious Liam is trying _not_ to be.

(how unfortunately _in love_ with Zayn he’s been for ages now)

“Right.  Business only, Nightwing,” she says, her voice going severe.  “There’s a bit of a scene down near Apple Grove.  Roughly fourteen men.  All armed.  It’s an old dinner club.  Reckon it’s a hot night spot these days for easy drug exchanges.  It’s not that far from the―”

“The orphanage,” Liam and Zayn say together in slow, soft voices.

Liam swears, by the rattle of Zayn’s heart with his chest pressed even firmer to Liam’s spine now, Zayn’s tapped into their link.  Sneaky bugger.  Always a bit of a tech wiz―though, he’s nothing on Harry.

Styles could plug Candy Crush Saga into all of Gotham’s major police networks all while eating a bowl of Weetabix in his silly Scooby Doo pajama bottoms, listening to Coldplay.

The bratty lad is lethal in quite a few positive ways.

After a beat, Eleanor comes back into his ear.  “Yes.  Detective Horan’s squad,” there’s a hint of fondness trying to hide behind her stern tone, “is already on the scene.  They’re a bit outnumbered―from a brain capacity standpoint, only.”

Liam wants to have a laugh at that but Zayn’s fingers are pinching uncomfortably into the muscles of his thigh.

“You’re nine clicks out.  Should I call in―?”

“No,” Liam replies quickly.  He leans forward, Zayn mimicking his motion until their weight makes the glide easier.  “I’m on it.”

“You and―”

“El,” Liam warns, thinking to flip a middle fingered salute to her in one of Gotham’s many surveillance cameras.

She’d no doubt have a good laugh at it.  But he’s in no mood.

There’s a mission― _protect Gotham_.  All the other bits (Eleanor’s teasing, his own outrageous heart, the boy squeezing onto him like Liam might not be around for long) are irrelevant.

His purpose is non-negotiable.  Another brilliant lesson from Batman.

Eleanor’s next prompts are clear, clean of mocking.  “Alley entrance.  There’s a back door and a rooftop entry.”

“Cut the electrical,” Liam grunts.

“Already done, babe.  You’re not but six minutes out now,” Eleanor replies, her voice returning to that calculated, grave tone.

Liam appreciates it on a professional level.  But on the inside, he craves afternoons lounging in his flat, Eleanor next to him having a laugh after whatever’s on the telly.  The sunlight drenching their faces, keeping them warm.

Except, for a second, he replaces El with Zayn.  His cold feet in Liam’s lap, a hand in Liam’s unruly morning hair.  Those squiggly crinkles around Zayn’s eyes whenever he laughs too hard.  He imagines the skin between his thighs still a bit pink―the glorious itch of beard burn―from the night before and offering to return the favor to Zayn in the middle of _Loose Women_ and morning tea.

The rest of this unfortunate life fades out for those kinds of pipe dreams.

“Sounds urgent,” Zayn says after a few clicks.

Liam shakes, tilting his head lower.  He’s an absolute mess.

“Just hold on,” he grunts.

A skinny arm wraps around his stomach, the other still fit awkwardly between Liam’s legs.  This time, Zayn’s fingers pet restlessly over Liam’s thigh.

For his comfort or Zayn’s, he’s not sure.

But Liam never asks Zayn to stop.

 

+++

 

There’s not much to see in the alleyway.  It stinks of sewage, drain pipes gurgling out frothy green pollution.  A metal maze of fire escapes hangs above, all broken ladders and rusted railing.  The clouds droop lower, opening up for a frail drizzle of rain, cold and misty.

Liam parks his motorcycle in the narrow spacing, between two rough brown-bricked buildings.  It’s dark enough not to have to hide.  But Liam hangs in the shadows, out of habit.

Not Zayn, though.

He’s a glorious stretch of muscles, fitted leather jacket, the stark red of his Bat emblem standing out against all the dark of his clothes.  A catch of street light streaks over his red helmet.  Wide shoulders, narrow waist.  Perfect symmetry in ways Liam imagines are discussed in his maths course.

Zayn is angles, sharp and soft.  He lacks a bit of Liam’s clumsy grace but he’s his own sophistication.  Zayn burns like most things grow―in less than extreme circumstances.  It’s beauty, tampered.  The kind Liam never understood but craved.

“You’ve a plan?” Zayn asks, looking around.

Liam’s jaw tightens.  Right.  This is business.  They’ve a mission―Liam has to clean up Gotham and Zayn’s arsed over anyone stepping into his territory.

“Somewhat,” Liam confesses, his shoulders lifting and falling too casually.

“Reckon letting me in on it?”

“If we do this _my_ way,” Liam counters, folding his arms over his chest.  He squares his shoulders, puffing up a bit.  He’s going for serious, authoritative―and probably failing terribly.

“Being cheeky?” Zayn wonders, chuckling.

Liam drops his eyebrows, his face going steely.  “I’m not.”

Zayn looks up and Liam imagines he’s rolling his eyes under that hood.  Liam doesn’t care.  He’s got two years on Zayn in age and loads more experience in the field.  Liam’s been doing this―with Batman and on his own―bit of song-and-dance without missing a beat for too long.

And he’s manage to walk away with bruises and broken bones only.

Sadly, he’ll never be able to say the same for Zayn.

“You sure you don’t want to go back to the Cave?  Fetch the old cape and cowl?” Zayn tosses out offhandedly, eyeing the gaps in the alley.

Liam’s jaw tightens until he thinks his teeth will crack.

Zayn notices, instantly.  “Just taking the piss, babe,” he adds, his voice coming gentler.  “I’m game for you taking control.”

A thick lump is sat in Liam’s throat.  It dissolves at Zayn’s easiness.  He wonders if Zayn wants to attach _‘taking control in the bedroom, too’_ but that seems like a contrived thought.

They’re not there.  _Yet_.  Or ever.  He’s not entirely sure, if he’s honest.

Zayn is too much of a distraction for him to do this proper, he knows.  But it’s nice having backup.  Someone _other_ than Harry.  He’s not big on having to watch Harry’s back and his own while putting his fist in some daft criminal’s jaw.

“You won’t give me shit?”

There’s a laugh caught behind that red mask.  But it sounds pleased.

“I’m making no promises,” Zayn replies, stalking closer to Liam.  “But you can take the point.”

Liam wrinkles his brow but he feels a bit more settled than before.  In place, he thinks.

Zayn’s hand reaches up, brushing over Liam’s shoulder.  He cups around the nape of Liam’s neck, Zayn tilting his head just so.

“I trust you.”

Like an atomic bomb hurled right at this chest―that’s what the words feel like.  Because they’re sincere.  Not a hint of irony about them.  They careen right into Liam until he’s not certain he hasn’t already said them back to Zayn.

It’s just three words but they’re the second most valuable words Liam’s heard from someone like Zayn.

(He’s waiting on the other three words to mean more than just something two teens whispered to each other because they were a bit lost, both orphans in an oversized mansion.)

Zayn limbers off, surveying their surroundings a bit more while Liam tries to collect himself.  He does a poor job of it.  But he pretends well―taking in the knocked over bins, muck scattered on the damp street, the light drizzle from above turning a bit heavier.

He turns back to Zayn.  “Might as well catch them off guard.  Two fronts, eh?”

Zayn shrugs, as offbeat as he’d been before.  Unaffected by the words he’d just spouted not two minutes earlier.  Slick strains of rainwater drip down his crimson hood.

“Could do.”

“Right,” Liam huffs, tilting his head back to look up.  “Should be fun?”

Zayn’s head turns some and Liam wonders for a long moment how wide Zayn’s grin probably is.  It tickles something warm in his belly, his own lips lifting in a blatantly happy motion.

“Easy as cake.”

Liam rolls his eyes, sniffing at the ozone stench of the air.  He gives a smooth nod, still eyeing the fire escape.  It’s his best route.

“I’ll go high and you can go low?”

Before Liam can get a proper response off Zayn, he hears the distinct thud of heavy boots on the fire escape.  Bloody prat.  Zayn’s already scaled the rusted out ladder, leaning over the railing to shrug thoughtlessly at Liam.

“Thought the other way around, maybe?”

Liam groans, scrubbing a hand over his face.  Even now, Zayn’s that little twat he was when they were younger―always a bit of a showoff.  Trying to outdo Liam.

(or impress him―but that’s hardly necessary, if Liam’s being honest)

“Reckon you’ll make less noise on the way in,” Zayn offers.

Liam crinkles his brow, doubtful.  Though, Liam is better at sticking close to the walls.  Making himself a shadow―a neat trick he invested into when having his suit made.  But he’s a bit more graceful than Zayn up high.  Could be more effective that way.

“Quit thinking so much.”

Liam wants to shout at Zayn.  Take command in a way Zayn won’t be able to argue his way out of.  But he thinks better of it.

“Should I not have―”

“You’re complicated,” Liam interrupts.

In his mind, he pictures Zayn smiling at the words like a compliment.

“Ta,” Zayn hums back.  “Is it not a brilliant plan, though?”

Liam shakes his head, in no mood to have another row with Zayn about it.  His annoyance flares a bit.  It’s his feelings, he reasons, sinking so deep in this ocean of _whatever_ that he can’t keep afloat.  He’s a bit too caught up on Zayn and it’s mucking everything up.

“Fine,” he bites out, moving for the back door.  “You take the top and I’ll take the―”

“Bottom?” Zayn sneers.

Fuck.  Liam doesn’t even have to consider how smug Zayn probably is behind that helmet.  A full-on wanker, that one.

(it’s a shame Liam’s so madly in love with him, none of that other stuff matters one bit)

“Just go,” Liam hisses, dislodging his Eskrima.  He gives them a twirl, loving the whirr they create while spinning.

Zayn snorts, shaking his head.  “Fancy a cuddle after, then?”

Liam knocks through the back door, not even bothering to look back at Zayn.

Or mutter the massive _‘yes I would’_ that’s plunked itself thoughtlessly in his chest.  He’s meant to save Gotham.  Having a shag or a snog with Zayn doesn’t quite fit into all of that.

But, bloody fuck, he’d love if it would, somehow.

 

+++

 

It’s an all-out gunshow when Liam creeps into the main level.  The clap back is like a thunderstorm, the dark insides of the abandoned club lit up like a fireworks display.  A reckless shootout between the perps and Horan’s squad.  Anarchy dipped into a thick pool of disarray.

Honestly, it’s not what Liam’s expecting.  He’s hoping for _easy_.  But his adrenaline kicks in almost instantly and he forgets he’s meant to study for a statistics exam in the morning or that he’s overtired from all of this.  This part―existing in the chaos―has become natural.  Permanently, he feels tethered to this life.

An unfortunate lad of circumstance and training.

His focus steels, fingers tightening around his Eskrima.  He moves along the floor like a practiced gymnast.

Cutting back to avoid a line of poorly aimed bullets, Liam cracks an Eskrima against someone’s skull.  The thud vibrates up into his forearm but he ignores it.  Flinging himself aerial, he drops two more perps without thinking much of it.  It’s all methodical.

This part is _easy_.

Being incredible at fighting, flying, putting his body in harm’s way to disarm a criminal has always been a tad natural for him.  Dangerously so.

It’s the other bits (the _being a normal bloke_ part) that give him troubles.

Here, Liam doesn’t have to think.  Just act.  He takes down four more burly blokes, two at a time, while skimming under gunfire, dodging reckless punches thrown at his body.  All with a chuffed up smile, fingers light along his Eskrima to use them effectively.

“You started without me?” Zayn frowns.

He drops in, knuckles catching a charging bloke in the chin.  Liam dispatches him with a leg sweep, laughing.

“You’re slow.”

“I’m _careful_ ,” Zayn corrects him.

Liam huffs out another breathless laugh.  Sweat soaks his hairline, his skin overheating from the rush.  Swallowing, he cocks his head at two wankers spraying bullets at a handful of cowering cops behind broken up columns.

“You’ve never been that, babe,” Liam sighs, lifting an eyebrow.  “I remember―”

Zayn wraps a hand around the back of Liam’s neck, tugging him down before a knife chucked at his head makes contact.

“Are you always this chatty?” Zayn hisses, but it’s smoothed by a razor’s edge grin.

Liam shrugs, body rattled as he huffs to catch his breath.  He’s not.  Usually.  Never was when he accompanied Paul on patrol.

But there’s something distinctively _uncontrollable_ about being around Zayn―like standing next to a supernova.  He can’t look away, even if the rest of the world is telling him to.

“Just pay attention,” Zayn demands.  “I’d like it if all of your bits were intact when this is over.”

Briskly, Zayn reaches a hand down, fitting it between Liam’s thighs, giving a purposeful squeeze around Liam’s soft dick.  His thumb sweeps under to Liam’s balls and―

“Bloody hell,” Liam gasps, smacking Zayn’s wrist until his grip gives.

Zayn snorts, lifting his hand to give Liam’s cheek a playful smack.  The cool leather of his glove feels nice along the heated blush springing up all over Liam’s cheeks.  He doesn’t say so, though.  Instead, he jerks back, analyzing their next move.

“They’re all loaded,” he says, keeping his voice slight as they hide out behind a knocked over table.  “Could be interesting.”

“That’s fair,” Zayn agrees.

The click of a safety, a gun cocking draws Liam’s attention.  Zayn pushes off his knees, producing twin Glock 26s.  There’s an instant where Liam overthinks―let’s his guard down for a second too long.  And Zayn, the quick bloke, moves thoughtlessly and with a recklessness Liam recognizes.  He hops over the table, already charging for the manic twins spraying off at Niall’s men.

“ _Christ_ ,” Liam swears, making quick footwork to keep up.

He spins and launches off a few turned over chairs, keeping out of the direct line of fire.  Zigzagging is easy in his suit―the layers much thinner than Paul’s.  Flexibility isn’t something he’s lost over the years―just the will to use it so often in a fight.

“No killing!” he shouts at Zayn.

Zayn’s boots skid on the floor, his body reacting naturally to drop into a roll, surging forward to knock one of the criminals into a wall.  The bloke’s out cold just from the momentum of Zayn’s body.

“You’re determined to make me suffer,” Zayn growls.

He sets into the other bloke, disarming him, pressing the barrel of his own gun to the wanker’s temple.

“And no guns, either,” Liam adds, crinkling his brow.

“Now you’re just taking the piss,” Zayn huffs.

Liam will never admit out loud but, for more than half a second, he’s _terrified_ Zayn will disobey him.  With the tip of the gun still lodged against the perp’s temple, Zayn barely budges.  Because he’s not quite the same anymore.  He’s not one of Paul’s prized pupils.

Zayn has changed.  Thinks differently.  He’s seen things Liam still hasn’t heard about―and probably will never understand.

(that bit is terrifying too, honestly)

But then tension seeps out of Zayn’s shoulders.  He lowers his gun, jabbing an elbow into the perp’s skull to put him out.

Breathing raggedly, Zayn turns to Liam.  There’s no reading his expression under the cloak of shadows layering him.  But Liam is _hopeful_ that Zayn is smiling.  Or, at least, not scowling.

“Doing it your way bites, babe,” Zayn grunts, his breath heavy.

Liam gives a pitiful one-shouldered shrug, lips quirking lopsided into a grin.  It crinkles up his nose, embarrassingly.  He doesn’t mind, this once.

Not for the way Zayn seems to relax in front of him.  That’s enough to settle any bits about him that were wound up, adrenaline-soaked, ready for a match to finally set him on fire.

“This is gonna be bloody awful,” Zayn spits, shaking his head.  His protest is weak, Liam observes.

He charges back in, feet surprisingly light, even in his heavy boots.  The weight of his kit, his guns balanced in their holsters, is shockingly balanced.  All of his proportions―with the jacket, the heavily layered top, loose trousers with various pockets―should make him thicker.  Clumsy.

But Zayn is far from that.

Liam watches, keeping close to a wall.  He’s not seen Zayn in action in ages―

Zayn moves differently; with more focus.  There’s a purpose behind his punches.  He’s lethal, with just hands and feet.  As if he’s been taught by others how to _hurt_ in new ways.  There’s hardly a perp that can get a hand around him and Zayn takes a punch like a seasoned fighter.

A lightweight boxer, maybe.  Or a street brawler.

Someone who’s used to getting knocked on their arse and always, always getting up.  Bloodied and determined.

Liam admires it, distantly.  It rings all in his system―the blue-black bruises Zayn wears on the outside to hide all of the ones he’s ignoring on the inside.

“Gonna let me have all the fun?” Zayn shouts, sorting out two more arseholes on the perimeter.

Unconsciously, a goofy smile fits lazily over Liam’s mouth.  He shakes his head, sucking in a breath.  Something spikes in his blood―adrenaline, or possibly arousal―to a threateningly high level.

Stupidly, he’s not one to be outdone by a previously dead lad.  That’d be tragic, right?

He’s about to sprint back in, Eskrimas drawn at his sides, face lit up like a child on Christmas morning, but the glass of a nearby window shatters.

A familiar laugh―lofty, young, a bit daft―rings in his ears.  Flashes of canary and crimson blur by him and Liam’s heart lurches.  Belatedly, Liam doesn’t know how he didn’t sort this out sooner.  All the commotion is probably spread over the police scanners, making the nightly news in some parts.

Eyes level on the newest challenger in the room, Liam knows without putting a face to the cape and streaks of red―

It’s Harry.  Full-on combat-ready, rolling into action like he’s meant to save the day.

“Next time,” Harry huffs, moving like a wily tiger, ducking bullets, “I reckon y’could do better than leaving me the leftovers.”

He’s always been a bit clumsy, being tall and underweight, but Harry moves like Liam wishes he still could.  With an agile body, quick feet.  An untrained ballet dancer―with his own grace.  He fancies mocking criminals before taking them down.  Being a bit smug when he shocks himself by handling the massive blokes that come at him.

Harry is every bit of a younger Liam; a younger Zayn, too.

It’s an awful combination, Liam thinks.  But his eyes follow Harry as he bounces around, cape flapping, having a proper scrap with a few of the already worn-down perps.

“What are you―?”

“Hacked into Oracle’s transmissions,” Harry explains before Liam can ask.  His curls cascade down into his face before he pushes them off.  “Sorry, should’ve said that first, yeah?”

“No,” Liam growls, springing back into the fray.  “You _should_ be―”

“Boring,” Harry quips.  Arrogant twat, as always.  “Was in the queue at a coffee shop, craving a bit of peppermint tea and those delicious sticky scones, y’know?  Couldn’t get them off me mind all day―”

Liam sighs, Harry’s droll babbling a trademark of his during a fight.  He’s gotten on without dragging Harry on patrol with him for a _reason_.  Harry’s still on that edge of immature.  It’s dreadful.

“ _Robin_ ,” Liam hisses, keeping a knife from being shoved into Harry’s gut.

“So formal,” Harry giggles, going aerial to sort out the bloke Liam’s just disarmed.  “Anyway, heard about all the noise going on down here and I didn’t fancy spending a night reading _Moby Dick_ while Paddy putted about.”

“This prick is for real?” Zayn wonders, off and about zip-tying a handful of knocked out perps.

Liam sighs, an aching throb just behind his temples.  A pulse like those strobe lights in nightclubs.  Harry and Zayn.  Zayn and Harry.  It’s a dreadful combination.

He swears he’ll never get his head on straight dealing with these two.

“Can’t believe you’re hanging about with this jerk while I waste away―”

“Watch your mouth, _kid_ ,” Zayn warns, his disdain bleeding through his tone.

“Kid?  I’m not that much younger than you,” Harry complains, crinkling up his brow, lips pushed into a full-on pout.  “Well, mathematically.  I think?  Do we count the years you were _dead_ or―”

Perfect.  A stroppy Harry and a jealous Zayn.  Liam’s won the monopoly on middle-man-troubles.

“You can both shut the bloody fuck up if y’ want!”

It’s all poor timing―Liam being distracted.  He’s taken his sights off how many criminals were left about.  Hadn’t given his focus to their surroundings or checking all the corners.  Usually, he’s much more efficient.  Calculated, if not at least _detailed_ about this sort of thing.

No, he’s gone and let Zayn in his head ( _in his heart_ ) while trying to sort out Harry and his _need_ to be a hero.

(Liam wishes it was a _choice_ for him―not like it is for Harry.  It’s not a burden Harry’s _meant_ or _forced_ to carry.  He’s got options.  Liam’s chained to this life.)

There’s a bloke, crawling over broken glass, his gun aimed right at Harry.  A shaky finger on the trigger, determination set into his squinting eyes.

And Liam recognizes he’s not quick enough.  Not with his head all over the place and―

The crack of gunfire splits the air.  It’s a sure shot.  From this angle, you can’t miss.  It just _happens_.  And the perp drops like a boulder, an angry puddle of red spreading out from his forehead.

Harry’s struggling for a breath, seized up, shaken.  Liam’s still frozen, all of his muscles working in the wrong order.

And the barrel of Zayn’s gun has a thin trail of smoke clouding around it.

“Shit,” Harry gasps, his face drained of color, sweat wetting his cheeks and brow.

Liam swallows, twice.  Once more.  His blood is sparked up with adrenaline and fear.  It spikes uncomfortably into his veins.  And he stops giving himself a second to think.  Instead, he charges forward, hooking his fingers into the collar of Harry’s suit, dragging him out of view.

“You’ve bloody lost it, mate.  Gone full-on mad, haven’t you?” Liam barks at Harry.

In the shadows, Harry flinches, drops his chin.  He looks a bit pitiful, worse for wear.  Not that Liam gives a shit because he knows what _that_ feels like―

Being scolded for being reckless.  The countless _speeches_ Paul gave him after a bad night out in the field.  Frustrated tears building behind his eyes, holding them in.

He’s not sparing Harry this bit.

“I was trying―”

“You were _trying_ to get killed,” Liam interrupts, his brow creased severely.  “You should’ve stayed in.  This wasn’t your fight.  It never is.”

Harry jerks his chin up, defiant.  There’s a scowl making the rounds of his face.  “That’s not true.  Batman picked me for a reason.  Gotham is my city, too.  I’m _Robin_.”

A reverb of anger pulses right down to Liam’s toes.  His fingers curl around the nape of Harry’s neck, digging in.

“You’ve a life ahead of you, Haz.  _This_ isn’t it.  Spare y’self,” he nearly begs, breath coming out harsher.  “I reckon it’s time you become more than just Gotham’s bitch.”

“But that’s not what Batman―”

“Batman is _dead_ ,” Liam snaps.

Hollowed out.  It’s how Liam feels when the words finally seethed past his lips.  A bit lighter, he thinks, too.  Removing a kettle from the fire―the whistling steam finally dying out.  He’s not said it, not enough to anyone but himself.  If even himself, actually.  Still, he watches the impact as it smacks to Harry’s expression.  The way he goes paler, softer―the way flower petals get as they wilt, slowly―like he’s not ready to admit it.

That’s fair.  Liam hasn’t been ready either.

Sometimes mourning doesn’t give a person a time limit―just insurmountable time.

“You’ll get it one day,” Liam whispers, his throat closing around the words.  “You’ve a family, here, lad.  A right chance to be there for them.  To wake up doing whatever you like.  To not always have t’ watch your back or summat.”

After a beat, the shakes transfer from Liam to Harry.  His lower lip trembles until he’s frowning.

Liam gets that, too.  The unabashed sadness settling in.  Recognition overpowering stubbornness.

“I’m Nightwing,” Liam says, half giving into a smile.  “I like it well enough.  But it’s not all I want to be.”

Harry’s throat wobbles when he swallows.  His chin lowers again, curls falling forward.  He looks ready to curl in on himself.  Liam gives his shoulder a small pat; mild comfort.

He keeps his fingers curled around Harry’s neck, a strong point of contact.

“Reckon you should be off, back to the manor.”  Liam lets out a breath, steadying it.  “I don’t s’ppose Paddy needs to bury another body.”

Roughly, Harry gives him a sharp nod.  Slips from under Liam’s hands in a staggering manner.  He’s gone, almost as if he was never there.  Into the shadows, clear from sight.

Liam expects more of a fight.  But Harry doesn’t give it tonight.  He might be proper cross with Liam for a few days but it’ll sink in.

At least, Liam hopes it will.

“You’re good with him,” Zayn says, from behind Liam, his voice raspy from exertion.  “Better than Paul was with us, I s’ppose.”

Spinning on his heels, everything turns into a blur.  Liam’s heart kicks out of place, flutters in fits and starts.  He eyes Zayn for a long moment, trying to see past the haze of red in his head.  But behind his eyelids, he can still see that lake of red from the poor bloke’s head Zayn split open.

“I said no guns.  I say not to kill,” Liam blurts, his breath wrecking what’s left of his voice.  “What’re you doing Zayn?”

Zayn gives a bit of a callous shrug.  He looks weighed down, slumping a bit where he’s leaning against a broken up pillar.  He’s tugged off the helmet, his leather jacket rumpled and hanging off one shoulder.  His eyes aren’t keeping entirely focused―belatedly, Liam will recognize it’s the first sign.

“Saving the brat’s arse, wasn’t I?” Zayn finally answers, his voice still gone hoarse.

Liam squints at him, uncertain.  There’s thin scraps inside his chest reminding him that, _yes_ , Zayn did save Harry’s life.  He’s done Liam a solid by watching Harry’s back when Liam was too distracted to do so.  But it’s not enough to add up to the worry boiling over in Liam’s guts.

At who Zayn is now.  This phantom of the lad Liam knew ages ago.

This _Red Hood_ he’s become.

Liam’s done well not to let all these loaded thoughts overwhelm him.  Quickly, he decides now is not the time to fold up and lose trust in Zayn.

“I don’t know what to,” Liam pauses, sighing.  “How do we do this?”

Zayn’s lips slide down.  His skin looks paler, still shiny with sweat.  Dark bits of hair sit flat along his head, his white fringe limp across his brow.  It all ages him a bit, taking away that teenage edge he had hours ago.

Zayn swallows, the whole motion taking far too much effort.  “Dunno,” he coughs, trying to right himself.  “S’ppose you’ve gotta make a call, Boy Wonder.  Trust me or ditch me.”

Liam’s stupid heart pounds a little louder and he wants to say a million things that’ll probably come out like gibberish.  But time doesn’t give him the opportunity to put together a proper grand speech about all the ways he’s loved this boy since they were climbing trees in the garden behind Higgins Manor.

His eyes drop to the hand Zayn has pressed firmly under his ribs.  And the dozen tiny streams of blood sliding down his suit.  Drizzles of red to match the emblem sitting fat at the center of his chest.

“Zayn,” Liam whispers, his voice still raw.

Zayn offers him a weak smile, wavering for a second.  There’s rips in his kit Liam hadn’t noticed before.  A scratch down one cheek, the blood drying sticky and dark.

He’s a wreck from the fights, not nearly used to hand-to-hand combat like he was years before.

And all because Liam _demanded_ him not to kill.

“Babe,” Liam says loosely, his heart shoved right up into the center of his throat.  He’s at Zayn in three strides, pulling him close.

“I’m fine,” Zayn chokes, going slack against Liam.  “Just give me a minute.”

“You’re _hurt_ ,” Liam squeezes back, one arm cradling the small of Zayn’s back while his spare hand cups the nape of Zayn’s neck.  Gloved fingers ease into sweat-soaked hair until Liam can feel the coolness of Zayn’s scalp.

“Been worse,” Zayn tries to joke.  His laugh is just a bloody series of hacked coughs.

Liam shivers, turning his head to rest his lips against Zayn’s temple.  “Bloody hell, you donut,” he breathes, trying to keep his heartbeat in tune with Zayn’s.

Except, Zayn’s rhythm has gone weaker.  Slower, like his body is naturally trying to keep it all together.

“Don’t get soppy with me,” Zayn mumbles.  “I’m good.  Chilled, even.”

Liam breathes, hard.  He can almost taste the coppery scent of Zayn’s blood in his own mouth.  That metallic flavor he hates, especially after a rough go with some massive bloke.  It wears Liam’s nerves thin.

“I’ve got you,” he says, probably more to himself than Zayn.

Zayn tuts at him, shaky fingers squeezing weakly at Liam’s hip.  “Shut up,” he huffs, leaning heavier into Liam.  He’s barely managing on his feet.  “Be fine in a few.  Still good for our second date.  ‘M thinking curry and spicy kebabs.  Know how much you hate when I ask for extra chili peppers in me phall curry.”

Liam sighs gently, lips turning upward into a smile.  Dry lips run soft kisses to Zayn’s temple, into his sweaty hair.  Carefully, he gives Zayn’s limp body another squeeze.

“Is that you asking me, mate?”

Zayn coughs, another poor attempt at a laugh.  He makes a little noise in his throat, something like desire.

“Could find a better way to go about it, couldn’t I?”

“You could,” Liam hums, ears pricking at the noise of the cops not fifty yard away, already scouring the scene.  “Now doesn’t seem appropriate, you reckon?”

Zayn breathes shallower, like his lungs are starving for proper oxygen.  His nose nuzzles over Liam’s collarbone, the bright spots of heat seeping through the thin material of Liam’s kit.

“I’ll give it a go later,” he wheezes.  “Could go for a kip first.”

Liam nods, his sharp eyes searching through the dark of the area they’re hidden behind.  He’s looking for proper exits and ways not to leave a trail.  Zayn’s dripping in little Rorschach splatters over the floor.  And he’s deadweight against Liam.  Could be proper difficult getting him all the way back to the Cave and Paddy’s care.

“Okay,” Liam murmurs.  “A kip and some tea, yeah?”

Zayn doesn’t answer.  His breathing is stuttered, but it’s nearly evening out.  Liam’s not certain that’s a good or a bad sign.

But he knows he needs to get Zayn out.  He knows, without a question, he needs to keep Zayn safe.

That part, he’s well-adjusted to.

 

+++

 

The ensuite in Liam’s flat is rather fantastic, if he’s being honest.

It’s a wonder of chrome, ivory, and glass.  There’s a floating vanity with a bowl basin along one wall, a glass box of a shower that lights up proper when the sun is out.  It always hums with the scent of sandalwood.  Cold tiles line the floor.  Twin mirrors with a cup for two toothbrushes along the vanity.  It’s honestly meant for a couple rather than some posh university student that’s hardly ever round enough to use it.

But Liam loves it.

Unfortunately, his mind can’t wrap around any of that.  At half midnight, his ensuite is a trainwreck of Zayn’s stripped off kit and a constellation of red stars dotting the tiles from Zayn’s still leaking wounds.  Scuff marks riddle the floor from Zayn’s muddy boots.

Right now, the room stinks of rust and copper from Zayn’s injuries and the sourness of Liam’s sweat.

Steam from the shower soaks the bathroom in a sweet, heady fog.  Liam examines all the little cuts and bruises along Zayn’s skin―scratches from a knife, slits along his skin from bullets nicking him, a map of scars up and down his torso.  War wounds collected over his skinny frame.

Zayn tips his head back, blinking hazily at the ceiling rather than looking at Liam.

It only bothers Liam for a second.  He focuses on how Zayn’s face has gone soft, knackered.  How weak Zayn still is, pressed to a cold wall, still needing Liam’s strong hands to keep him upright.

“Can you make it by yourself?”

Zayn sucks in a breath.  The whole motion rattles his frame in this dangerously uncomfortable way.  He shakes his head, once.

Right.  It’s all the initiative Liam needs.

Quickly, Liam tugs out of his own kit.  It takes a bit of effort―it always does―to twist his way out of the stretchy, gripping material.  He tries to keep one hand on Zayn’s hip at all times.  Just a reminder he’s still around.

Just a way to keep Zayn from caving in on himself.

“Hey,” Liam mumbles, his teeth holding his bottom lip.  Zayn sniffs, barely flitting his eyes over Liam.  “C’mon, you trust me, ‘member?” Liam asks, his thumb smoothing over a scar near Zayn’s abdomen.

Zayn takes in a sharp breath that’s overloud but his eyes finally start to focus.

His chapped lips part but there’s not a word on his tongue.  He’s too drained, battered.  And his eyes have gone glassy, possibly from built up tears or just frustration.  And Liam gets that.

He leans in until their foreheads knock, sweat making it hard for them to stay centered.

“Even if you don’t,” Liam breathes, pressing his palm to a wound that makes Zayn hiss, “I’ve not just got you back to watch you go again, alright?  So let me.”

Zayn shivers in a way that frightens Liam.  So he presses a protective hand to Zayn’s chest, waiting out the tide.  Keeping pressure over another wound until Zayn finds a string of calm.

“C’mon,” Liam whispers, curling an arm around the base of Zayn’s spine.  Cradling him isn’t Liam’s intention but Zayn sways so easily.  “Lemme help,”

And Zayn does.  He stumbles over his own untrustworthy feet, stays slack against Liam until Liam walks them backwards into the shower.  The hot spray rains over them and Liam hardly notices how quickly it warms up every bit of him.

He’s keeping Zayn’s eyes with his until they’re bodily trapped under the pressure of hot water.

Liam sponges at Zayn’s fresh wounds without his shower gel, cleaning the blood away.  He’s gentle, scrubbing at Zayn in slow, methodical circles.  He doesn’t mind when Zayn leans in, sinking his teeth into the meat of Liam’s shoulder with a sharp hiss as Liam pats too heavily at a scratch.

He’ll wear those teeth marks like a banner.

“Almost,” Liam whispers, mopping at three jagged marks under Zayn’s ribs.  He keeps at it, ignoring Zayn’s soft protests.

Underfoot, there’s a tiny pond of cloudy pink water circling the drain.  A deluge of Zayn’s blood gurgling into Gotham’s sewers.

When Liam’s finished, his hands lather heady ginger shampoo into Zayn’s hair, fingers curling around all the white bits.  Strands snagging on Liam’s fingers while his thumb maps Zayn’s hairline.  Comforting clouds of steam masking how obvious Liam knows his smile probably is.

Zayn squeezes his eyes tightly shut, frowning.  Liam wants to laugh―his head spinning at how soft and adorable Zayn can be.

Their eyes meet at some halfway―Zayn mostly there but still slightly vacant―and hold for a minute.  Or two.  Enough that Liam feels Zayn dripping back into himself, finding a reference point.  Focus, it’s all Liam needs from Zayn.

His world goes a little lopsided when Zayn’s hands start to explore Liam’s skin.  Just small brushes, thin fingers skittering over his flesh like they’re searching for a groove to call home.  They swim across all the scars Liam’s forgotten about―a pinkish road map of his years on patrol.  Zayn’s hands work over the raised skin like he’s reading braille.

Liam feels it down to his toes and his prick ( _the traitor_ ) fattens up just from the breezy touches.

He follows Zayn’s movements.  His own shaky hands learn the surfaces of Zayn’s scars.  There’s a massive one jagging its way down the center of his chest, stretching in a Y-shape under his collarbones.

Zayn’s autopsy scar.  Still a deep pink and intimidating.

Except, Liam can’t take his eyes away.  He can’t stop his fingers from tracing it like they want to erase it.  Thumb it away like an errant pencil mark on a drawing.

“You don’t have to,” Zayn starts.  His voice cracks―exhaustion, or something fearful.

Liam shushes him, shaking his head.  He keeps running the weird lines of the wound.  Memorizing its purpose.  His mind soaks it up―Zayn is _here_ , but he wasn’t for a while.

It all wells up inside of Liam until he can’t think of anything to do but lean in, slot his mouth right against Zayn’s in a hurried kiss.

Zayn makes a noise, not protesting.  He sinks in, tilting his head up into the kiss.  It encourages Liam, a strong hand cupping the back of Zayn’s head while his other hand spreads over the dip at the bottom of Zayn’s spine.  He situates his prick against Zayn’s hip but his attention is on Zayn’s mouth.

On how soft, warm it is, the slow curl of Zayn’s tongue against his own.

It feels like a long moment, under the hot spray, Zayn’s fingers tracing every nob along the definition of Liam’s spine.  They swap control every few seconds, Zayn almost strong enough to give as much as he takes.  Liam loves it.

He can feel Zayn’s cock rubbing just under his balls, slick wetting the skin behind them.  Liam almost considers spinning around, bending over for Zayn, but―

“God, love,” Liam hums, biting softly at Zayn’s lower lip.  “I’ve not thought this would happen.  Not all the times that I―”

Zayn brushes an achy laugh to Liam’s mouth, pressing it inside.  “Tell me you’ve had a wank over me, once or twice before.”

“Fifty,” Liam confesses, sighing, easing into another long kiss.  “Pulled me dick raw over it, babe.”

Zayn whimpers, nodding, crushing into another kiss.  His fingers dig into Liam’s back and it’s the stereophonic way his voice goes pitchy when Liam grinds against him that confirms the things Liam’s always needed to know about Zayn.

“Careful,” Liam warns when Zayn wavers.  “Still a bit knocked over, aren’t you?”

Zayn huffs through his nose.  The water has spread his hair into a flat disaster, giving him back his youth.  There’s a light flush to his cheeks again, a bit of color to his eyes.

Behind heavy eyelashes, Zayn’s got a bit of reverence Liam admires.

And, further under the layers, his eyes have gone a tad black and dilated.  Like his mind is racing to catch up with his arousal.

“Trust you,” he says, raspy, “Now trust me.”

There’s a hundred questions rattling off in Liam’s mind but there’s not enough time or space to think them through.

Zayn goes to his knees with little invitation or fight.  His solid hands hold Liam’s hips, deft fingers pressing hard enough to leave bruises.  And he’s eye-level with Liam’s jutting cock.  The tip weeps thick dollops of precome.  His foreskin curls halfway around the head but shrinks back the firmer he gets.

Almost absently, Zayn’s tongue flicks across his lips.  As if his mouth is watering, starved for Liam’s dick.

It hits like a _‘wow’_ in Liam’s gut and he just watches, vision a bit jarred from the headrush.  Liam waits for Zayn’s next move.

Zayn mouths around the head, licking off the precome, wetting Liam’s dick even more.  His cheeks hollow immediately, his body craning toward Liam.  A hand catches the root of Liam’s prick, steadying him.  Zayn cocks his head, slides down without breaking, breathing heavy through his nose.

He’s nearly all the way down when he swallows roughly, jerking back.  He sputters a cough but doesn’t give himself time to recover.

Liam wants to scream or shout at the way Zayn just sinks back down, swallowing around Liam.

Instead, he smacks a wet palm to the glass wall.  It leaves an imprint in the steam.  His spine goes painfully straight and he creeps onto his tiptoes to halt his hips from jerking forward.

Overheated.  That’s what he is.  From the steam and the adrenaline still in his blood and Zayn’s bloody beautiful mouth slurping around him.

Zayn moans softly when Liam’s hand finds the nape of his neck.  Never pushing; just holding on.  Liam exhales loudly, trying to steer himself away from his orgasm.  But it’s been so bloody long.

And it’s _Zayn_.  Soft lips wrapped happily around Liam’s throbbing prick, downing him like his favorite sweet.

Zayn’s mouth creates obscene noises.  Suction marred by slurping.  They echo against the tile, keeping Liam’s moans from sounding overdramatic.  But Liam’s shaking and Zayn’s so close to deepthroating him.  He’s sloppy with it, carelessly letting stringy bits of spit and precome drip out the corners of his mouth.  He’s gone manic over Liam’s foreskin, using his fingers and tongue to scoot it back before drawing it round the tip of Liam’s cock again.

It’s a moment of madness Liam gladly descends into.

“Can’t, can’t keep,” Liam whimpers, curling his fingers into Zayn’s soaked hair until they snag on the thickness.

Zayn sips at the precome, cleaning the head before sliding his mouth down again.  Tear-trails stain his cheeks, like his throat isn’t accustom to Liam’s size but he keeps at it.  Keeps slurping until Liam is in his throat again.

It nearly takes Liam over, just watching Zayn’s vulnerable mouth go pliant for him.

“Think I might shoot off soon, babe,” Liam warns, his voice sounding a wobbly mess in his ears.

He’s huffing through breaths, never really giving his lungs a chance to break down the oxygen.  The feel of Zayn’s tongue along the groove on the underside of his cock is incredible.  Zayn’s fingers along his balls is tickling but not in an uncomfortable way.

It’s that butterfly with massive wings in your belly feeing that Liam associates with flying too high on a swing set.

He’s off his head and doesn’t give a bloody fuck about it.

“In me mouth?” Zayn offers, pulling off for a sharp breath.  His voice is shredded―grated by the stretch of Liam’s cock lodged in his throat.  “Or somewhere else?”

Liam’s eyes roll back and he shuffles forward until the sticky head of his dick smacks sloppily at Zayn’s wet lips.  “Mouth is good,” he mumbles, keeping his eyes shut.  “Could do with that.  Absolutely.”

Zayn chuckles, even his laugh strained from having Liam too deep in his throat.

“Alright, babe,” he rasps, nuzzling his mouth across the slit.  “Let’s have a taste, shall we?”

Liam’s back arches a bit too sharply when Zayn takes him back in.  He’ll feel that―along with all the new bruises and tears in his skin from the night―quite awfully in the morning.

But he doesn’t seem to give a flying fuck at the moment.

Instead, his brain drains right out of his head as he rocks his hips smoothly until his dick swells and spits thick come all along Zayn’s tongue.

“Blimey Hogwarts and muggles,” he sighs, oversensitive when Zayn refuses to pull off after his dick quits blurting come into Zayn’s mouth.

With a sputtering―almost haughty―wheeze of a laugh, Zayn falls back on his haunches.  The back of his wrist smears off the trails of come that slipped past the edges of his mouth.

“What?”

Sighing, Liam slumps back against a glass wall.  Shivers wreck his nervous system.  His vision still warps between massive black holes and foggy clouds.  Numbness settles through him.  He’s not sure if his knees will support him long.

“Sorry,” he grunts, rubbing shyly at his chest.  “Dunno why but I think of Harry Potter bits to come down after nutting off.  Pretty sad.”

“Sad,” Zayn repeats, smirking.  “Still, that’s like you, babe.  Fierce vigilante who gets off while thinking of Quidditch or summat.”

Liam groans, throwing a hand over his face to hide his embarrassment.

The heat from the shower starts to fade after a bit and Liam feels a newly, unwanted shiver rack his body.  Zayn struggles back to his feet, Liam swooping in to help.  He keeps a guarded arm round Zayn’s middle, just to find an excuse to run soft kisses across Zayn’s mouth.

(He doesn’t know why but he still thinks he needs that―a superficial reason to kiss Zayn.  To express what he’s held in for too many years.)

(Liam wonders if Zayn notices.)

“Knackered,” Zayn mumbles, tugging away but keeping close enough to press a hand to Liam’s chest.  Fingers shift through sparse bits of hair along Liam’s chest, dawdling in their own pleased way.

Liam nods, biting at his mouth to stop a frown.  He’s not _expecting_ Zayn to reciprocate but there’s a heavy lump in his stomach that half wants that.

For Zayn to need the affection half as much as he does.

“Would you like to, um,” Liam stammers.  He flushes at Zayn’s wide-eyed stare.  “I mean, it’s pretty daft of me, but you could stay?”

Zayn sizes him up, the moment not passing as quickly as Liam would like.  In fact, it thickens.  This dark, heavy moment of quiet that Liam can’t navigate through.  But then the corners of Zayn’s mouth (still swollen from kisses, wet from sucking Liam off) lift a bit.

“Don’t reckon I could make it on my feet all the way back to me place,” he says, voice falling into a familiar shyness.  “Could do for a lie-in.”

Liam nods, his enthusiasm too transparent.  Honestly, this once, he doesn’t mind.  It’ll do him just as fine knowing Zayn is safe.  Resting, letting his wounds heal.

All in Liam’s oversized bed, of course.  Possibly, cuddled in Liam’s yearning arms.

It’s all fairly pathetic thinking, innit?  Liam believes so.  But that doesn’t halt him from curling a hand around Zayn’s and leading him off the ensuite, tugging a few towels out of a cupboard to dry Zayn off with.  Walking him backwards right into Liam’s bed.

Right back into that massive gap in Liam’s heart.

 

+++

 

**Zayn**

 

Rain plunks in heavy, drowsy thuds in his ears.  It’s a dull soundtrack in his head, not loud enough to drown out everything else.  Often, these days, he never really hears anything above the chaotic laughter in his head.  Or the sick thud of a crowbar cracking another set of ribs.  He’s not well enough to know what it’s like to think of anything but the soundless screams in his ears as he clawed his way out of a grave.

Unfortunately, the only thing the black of Zayn’s mind ever hears is him dying.  Over and over.

It curls vicious hands around his throat, choking out all the bits he’s learning to love―the rare sunshine over Gotham, the taste of proper Early Grey, long nights breathing in heady air from a rooftop.

 _Liam Payne_.  Every inch of Liam Payne.

And here he is again―caught in a nightmare.  Drowning in death.  Mangled by the Joker’s crowbar.  Suffocating in a puddle of his own blood.  Swallowing down mouthfuls of frothy green liquid while submerged in the Lazarus Pit.

Dying.  Being reborn.  Every second a jumble in his head until he barely remembers what’s left of who he was and what’s clawed its way into who he’s become.

Like wearing your skin but never sitting comfortably in it.

Zayn whimpers, his chest heaving for a clean breath.  Sweat soaks him to his heels, his eyes popping open to a room he doesn’t know.  Just like before, after the Pit.  Or in a grave he didn’t recognize as his own until he crawled out.

But the scent on the sheets is familiar.  The airiness of the flat a tad comforting.  That warm body next to him, stirring, cowering to get closer―even when Zayn thrashes around―settles him just a little.

But like every inch of Gotham he’s explored, it’s not enough.

“Zayn.”  Liam’s hiss is loud in his ears.  “C’mon, I’ve got you.  C’mere.  Chill, babe.  Relax.”

Arms catch him.  Curl around him like iron bars, trapping him.  The sinew feels warm around him, Liam’s scent overwhelming.  It’s a shock of comfort.  Bringing him down, down.

The fight in Zayn’s lungs doesn’t give.  It takes him more than a minute to collect himself.  To control his limbs enough that he’s not kicking at Liam rather than crawling into his arms.  He’s shivering and shaken and not meant to let anyone see this bit.

The part where he’s swapped out being a vengeful arsehole for a whimpering, fragmented lad who’s scared of his own shadow.

“Let me go,” he sobs, his voice nearly shot from all the screaming he hadn’t realized he was doing.  His body is giving little fight against the way Liam secures his arms around Zayn’s frame.

“No.”  Liam’s voice is soft, frightened.  But his arms pull tighter around Zayn. “Let it settle.”

Zayn exhales painfully, shaking his head.  Nothing ever settles.  The weight never lightens; his lungs never loosen.

Penance is what it is.

“I can’t,” Zayn sighs.

Liam drags calm kisses across Zayn’s sweaty forehead, to the heated skin just behind his ear.  He’s slick all over, his body overworked.  Brilliant.  He’s probably ripe, despite the earlier shower, and he must look a pale mess.

But Liam keeps kissing at his brow, a loose press of lips to his temple, mumbling drivel until Zayn sorts himself out.

Feels like hours.  Possibly seconds.  Nothing ever adds up for Zayn anymore.

“Look at me.”

For a stubborn, defiant moment, Zayn refuses.  He’s certain there’s still achy tears at the corners of his eyes.  And there’s sweat soaking his temples, down to his cheeks.  But Liam’s fingers cup round his chin and Zayn leans into the touch.

He _needs_ the comfort.

Lifting his head, Zayn swallows down a lump when Liam greets him with a soft smile.  There’s scruff all along his chin and jaw.  Wrinkles in his forehead from years spent thinking too much.  Fond lines stitched into the skin around his eyes.  Zayn follows the moles on his skin, dark stars mapping out a universe of tan skin.

A world he’s spent―life and death―seeking a way into.

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not,” Zayn protests, shaking his head.  The shivers start up in unwanted fits again.

Liam nods, lips fighting against a frown.  But he leans in, the tip of his nose brushing Zayn’s.  Casual comfort worn so impeccably by Liam Payne.

“Do you always dream like that?”

Zayn trembles, closing his eyes.  He never dreams.  It’s always flashbacks.  Always bloody.  He’s not seen the back of his eyelids without seeing scars or death since he awoke from the Pit.

His eyes pop open and there’s this look in Liam’s eyes―as if he’s letting Zayn off the hook.  Giving him a go to stay quiet.  To sort all of this out on his own.

Fuck.

Just that easily, Liam’s gaze breaks Zayn in half.

“I _died_ ,” he chokes.  “I died, Li.  I’d gone and left.  And then something brought me back.  Didn’t have me head on clear, couldn’t even have a proper chat for _weeks_.  Just drowsy and lost.”  His breaths go shallower.  Zayn is used to that bit, too.  “Just, like.  All this white noise, y’know?”  In his vision, he can see Liam nodding but he knows Liam doesn’t fully comprehend.  How could he?  “And then someone’s gone and tossed me broken up bits into the Lazarus Pit to fix me.  But it didn’t.  I was dead and―”

He’s sobbing, gasping for a full breath.  He can feel his hands shaking where they’re sat on Liam’s bare thighs.  Every little nerve in his body is lit like an inferno.  A pyromaniac’s wet dream, he sorts.

“But what if I didn’t want to be back?” Zayn stutters, throat closed off by another sob.

Liam licks at his lips, a cursory movement, Zayn knows.  It’s to block off a frown.  Still, Zayn senses Liam isn’t sympathetic for him.

No, he’s _shattered_ because he can’t quite fix it.

He can’t mend off all Zayn’s rattled bits.

Tears force Zayn’s eyelashes to stick together.  His vision goes blurry, clouded over.  He can’t quite get a hold of his breaths, tucking his chin in an attempt to shrink.

To hide himself.

“What if I wasn’t a good person before the Joker, mate?  What if I never was good enough for any of it?” he pants, his head throbbing at a solid point behind his temples.  “I’ve never done enough good for this place.  Maybe I deserved to stay gone?”

Warm thumbs smooth under his eyes, collecting fat tears.  Rough palms cup his cheeks, pulling his head up.  And there’s Liam―head tilted, soft smile, skin pink and wrinkled from sleep.

The murky purple sky, ruined by thick grey clouds from the rain, tints all over the room except for Liam.

He’s still a spot of neat tan skin and bruise-scarred muscles.

Liam scoots in, bending, softening a kiss to Zayn’s dry mouth.  Then another.  He works kisses into Zayn’s lips until Zayn’s mouth goes pliant and willing.  Licking at Zayn’s teeth, Liam kisses like his words haven’t done enough.

Like he _owes_ Zayn a minute to feel human and alive again.

“What are you―?”

Zayn struggles to pull back but Liam’s fingers tighten on his cheekbones.  He keeps their foreheads pressed.

“Shush,” Liam says against Zayn’s lips.  “Dunno what ‘m doing anymore.  Don’t reckon an explanation is needed.  Just wanna show you.”

“Show me what?” Zayn hiccups.

“Me,” Liam replies, quick and sincere.  “Show you all of me.”

Liam’s gone absolutely mad.  He’s not making sense of anything.  And _that_ is what comforts Zayn.  It’s what allows his body not to fight against Liam’s hands when they cautiously push at Zayn’s shoulders, edging him down into the sea of sheets and duvet under them.

Zayn lies back, lost on everything, letting Liam straddle his hips with a thick smile and a wordless plea Zayn answers immediately.

“Lube?”

Liam’s cheeks turn pink quicker than Zayn expects.  The wrinkles set back into his brow but he clumsily reaches to the end table by his bed, fumbling for a bit, sorting out a tube and a gold foil.

“Haven’t even had a proper second date and you’ve already turned me into a slag,” Liam teases, presses the items into Zayn’s open palm.

Zayn’s lips quirk just enough that his smile doesn’t sting.

There’s a hint of reservation behind Liam’s eyes.  Nerves electrified.  Zayn knows that look well enough―even if he can’t name it out loud.  But he’s had enough experience in the seedier bits of life to know Liam’s chewing at his lower lip for a painfully shy reason.

“You’ve not done this before?”

Liam’s shoulders slump, his eyes flickering off Zayn’s face.

“No,” he replies, too quietly.  “Not this part.”

Zayn gives a nod, even if Liam’s not looking.  He smooths a hand up and down Liam’s hip, fingers moving in waves until Liam loosens.

Liam’s eyes find him in the dark.  “You?”

Zayn snorts, tipping his head back.  Salty tears are drying against his cheeks.  “Does fucking me palm during a few enthusiastic wank sessions count?  ‘Cause, listen, I’ve had loads of practicing pretending I’m shoving me dick up a tight hole.”

Liam squirms above him, squawking and thumping a fist into Zayn’s bruised shoulder.  Zayn yelps but steadies Liam across his hips before he can flail off.

“Absolutely rude.”

“Absolutely honest,” Zayn counters, shrugging.  His feet plant flat on the sheets, giving Liam his thighs to rest back against for balance.  “Is my lack of experience a bother?”

Something generously comforting moves across Liam’s face.  He needs it.  Zayn knows he can be a tit about loads of things but easing Liam out of discomforting embarrassment is something he prides himself on.

(plus, being a bloody virgin when you spent the last parts of your teenage years being a corpse isn’t a terribly humiliating thing to admit)

“Shouldn’t be that hard, you figure?” Liam says with a shrug.

Zayn cackles.  He rolls his hips, letting his flagging erection brush the crease of Liam’s arse before he replies, “Actually, I think it needs to be a bit hard for it to work, babe.  Thought you sorted that out in science courses.”

Liam flushes, a saturated crimson that rips another laugh from Zayn.  But he balances it with a comforting hand splayed across Liam’s belly, dipping just low enough to brush along Liam’s bouncing cock.  He spread the precome around like lube, squishing back the foreskin, loving how taught the skin gets round the base of Liam’s prick.

“Fuck me,” Liam mumbles, eyes dark and heavy.

He’s still squirmy, adjusting to Zayn’s fleeting touches.  But he’s wearing a serious expression.  Not as much a challenge as a request in the way his eyebrows set.

Zayn gives a small nod, working out all the ways this _shouldn’t_ happen in his head.  Because he’s not meant to have a permanent place in Liam’s life.  He’s not good enough.  Hasn’t earned enough points in the respectable category.

Liam deserves full marks at appreciating life and its wonders.

Zayn flunked out ages ago.

But Liam curls forward, smacking endless kisses to Zayn’s mouth, fingertips teasing the underside of Zayn’s wrist until he gets the point―Liam thinks he aced _this_ thing between them, top of the class.

He pops the lid of the lube, tears open the rubber with his teeth.  Slicking a healthy glob of lube along his fingers to rub at tight furl of muscles, Zayn manages to roll down the rubber (shivering when Liam leans back to help) with his free hand.  Slowly, he works the slick around Liam’s hole, dipping in.

Zayn has seen this bit in enough porn―easing Liam’s hole into submission around his fingers, starting with one and working up to three, pulling Liam off in firm strokes as he does it to help Liam relax.

He recognizes the hiss in Liam’s voice, the discomfort in his face each time Zayn adds another finger.

His arousal kicks up three ticks at how loud Liam gets after a stretch, rocking his hips until he’s riding Zayn’s fingers.  Loves the way Liam’s cock bobs in front of him, leaking wet puddles onto Zayn’s belly.  Can’t take his eyes off the tiny crinkles at the edges of Liam’s eyes when Zayn gets in deep, setting Liam off into another whispered prayer of bliss.

“Getting off on it, aren’t you babe?” Zayn asks.

Liam mewls, spreading his hands over Zayn’s chest to find a better rhythm.  That’s―well, Zayn’s lost for words.  But eyeing the practiced corkscrew of Liam’s hips as he grinds onto Zayn’s pleasantly warm fingers is mesmerizing.

“Might not even need to add me cock,” Zayn teases.

Liam shakes his head, biting his bottom lip raw.  “Need it,” he begs, still rocking down to meet Zayn’s fingers.  “Just wanna get a bit…”

“Looser?”

Liam groans, flushes from his cheeks down to his sternum.  His cock gives a twitch, spitting a runny trail of precome up to Zayn’s navel.  It’s bloody erotic and Zayn’s certain he’ll shoot off the second he gets inside of Liam.

“So _deep_ ,” Liam sobs, jolting up when Zayn’s fingers rub at his prostate.  “What the bloody fuck―”

“Found your spot,” Zayn giggles, curling his fingers for another rub.

Liam slumps forward, nearly knocked off Zayn’s fingers and scrambling for safety.  After a beat, he pushes back, sucking on his lower lip while his body searches for friction again.

“Could make you come like that, right?”

Liam nods, heaving wet breaths.  His body goes rigid, a second too close, before relaxing.  But Zayn keeps his fingers shoved in, twisting until he thinks Liam’ll be anything but snug when he finally sinks in.

“What do you say, babe?” Zayn wonders, Liam wriggling and panting obscenely above him, “Should we have a proper go at it now?”

Swallowing dry gasps of air, Liam nods.  Reluctantly, he crawls off Zayn’s fingers, trying to settle himself into a position on Zayn’s hips.  It’s amusing, but Zayn doesn’t take the piss.  Instead, he gives Liam’s hip a loving tap until he lifts up, permits Zayn an opportunity to shift about on the sheets and work his cock into position.

“Want me to push up?” Zayn asks, raising an eyebrow.  “Or you could ease down on it?”

Liam’s eyebrows scrunch, like he’s giving it a thought.  His fingers brush along Zayn’s collarbones and his shaking thighs give away what he needs.  Zayn keeps quiet about it, nodding.

The thing is, the way Liam gasps wetly and falls apart when Zayn starts to push in terrifies Zayn.  But in a glorious way.  As if he could do this always―bond physically with Liam.  Lose himself in Liam’s drowsy, drugged out stare.  How _easily_ he goes pliant after a few ticks, warm clench of his arse stiffly accommodating to Zayn’s size.  The way Liam’s thighs twitch, nerves thrumming under his skin.  Zayn could fold around Liam’s happy little grunts when he’s able to work himself down on Zayn’s dick.

Fall in love, over and over, until the world forces him to stop.

(And he won’t let the world get a word in―not when it comes to him and Liam.)

“Haven’t lost you, have I?” Liam teases above him.

Zayn smiles up at the ceiling, his head tossed back into a stack of pillows, mind gone gelatin.  His eyelashes flutter in these harsh, rapid beats.

Huffing a breath, Zayn chances a look at Liam.  And regrets it, intensely.  Because Liam’s gone goofy and pliable, soft around the face like the exterior of a sweet peach.  Strong in the arms and torso as he carefully gives a little _lift-and-fall_ rhythm to his hips.  Just to work the thick base of Zayn’s cock while rubbing the tight clutch of his arse around the tip.

 _Exquisite_ is what it is.  Mind-numbing in how fluid Liam becomes with easing up to the tip just to sink back down to the thick base.

“Have you practiced this on a toy, babe?  You’re good.”

Liam sighs in this honeyed tone, swatting a hand to Zayn’s chest.  “No,” he gushes, still trying to find balance on his knees.  He wobbles but Zayn’s got a hand to his hip, pinching fingers into forgiving skin.  “But I‘ve gotten off thinking about it.”

“About me?”

“Fishing for compliments?”

“Just a bit of banter,” Zayn counters, fisting the sheets when Liam gives a little swirl of his hips.  Bloody hell, the way Liam’s hole squeezes around him is making it difficult to hold in his orgasm.

There’s no give to the stiffness of Liam’s cock.  It wags and waves in front of him, smacking at Zayn’s belly.  It spits dense precome all up Zayn’s skin―sticky like melted sugar.  The muscles in Liam’s thighs jump and strain, his body working over Zayn’s cock with little control.

“Relax,” Zayn instructs, slinking down the bed while flattening his feet.  Finding a proper level, his eyes scan the blown dark halos of Liam’s pupils.  He gives a trial lift, bucking up into Liam.  The reward of a long moan comforts him.  “Let me have at it.”

“All yours,” Liam hums, eyes fluttering shut, mouth going slack.

Zayn’s not a terrible virgin, he hopes.  He’s gone at the sheets of his bed with a stiffy over Liam enough times as a horny teenager to have a good rhythm about his hips.  He angles his thrusts, searching, grinning when Liam yelps.

“Mm,” Liam whimpers, falling forward.  “Bit deeper.”

Zayn complies, smirking.  His hands settle round Liam’s narrow hips, keeping him in place.  He fucks up into the soft clutch, savoring the wet noises Liam’s hole offers.  It’s so slick, overdone with lube.  And he’s falling apart, elbows digging into the mattress, boxing in Zayn’s ear.

“Gonna need to come soon,” Liam whispers, hoarse.

“Me too.”

Liam tries to push back up into a decent position but his arms give out.  There’s a rich glaze of euphoria burnt into his expression.  He laughs, too strung out to bother trying again.  So Zayn does the work, shoving into Liam, pulling out until Liam’s rim sucks around the tip of Zayn’s cock.  He curls a hand around Liam’s skull to drag him down, snatch a kiss off him.

Barely there, Liam tries to kiss back.  To speak.  To stay in the moment but he fails.  Zayn merely rubs his soft, wet lips over Liam’s mouth until he feels the tremors.

“Oh shit,” Liam hisses.

Between them, his cock is slicking a mess across Zayn’s belly.  His foreskin stretches back, precome bubbling off the tip.  Thick breaths leave Zayn’s lungs and he can hear Liam sucking in shallow pulls of oxygen.

“Gonna come,” Zayn warns, screwing his eyes shut.  “Gonna nut, _can’t_ ―”

Liam shoves a kiss to Zayn’s mouth.  Swallows the last hitch of Zayn’s breath before going taut, the fluid at the slit of his dick gone thick and creamy.  It knocks Zayn out of rhythm, feeling Liam come between their stomachs.

“Ah,” Liam sobs, brushing his sweaty forehead along Zayn’s.

Zayn curls around Liam, shock wearing his system down.  His cock is nearly squeezed out of Liam’s hole while he convulses above Zayn.  Clenching arse milking Zayn.  But Zayn wiggles all the way in, flooding the condom when he finally comes.

“Holy fuck,” Liam wheezes, unmoving.  Silently, Zayn agrees, eyes gone to the back of his skull with his release.

He’s spent, floating somewhere between drowsiness and placidity.  His limbs barely function, stretched out across Liam’s overly-comfortable duvet like a drunken starfish.  Breaths are still racking his chest in tiny puffs.  His lips are tugged so wide and high, his cheeks ache.

It’s new and refreshing.  Zayn doesn’t know why he hasn’t bothered with any of this before.

He barely notices Liam peel the rubber off, chucking it into the bin near the bed, bare feet padding over the carpet as he escapes to the loo.  Zayn half turns his head, exhaling happily.  Dazed and drowsy sweep all the energy from his blood.

Liam settles back onto the bed, warm flannel dabbing away all the sticky come going tacky on Zayn’s skin.  At the mess he’s left over Zayn’s body.

“Alright?”

An epidemic of blush breaks out over Liam’s cheeks.  He gives a quick nod, ducking his head to grin.

“Alright,” he mumbles back.  He’s still smoothing the flannel across Zayn’s belly.  “Gonna be a bit sore in a few.”

Zayn exhales out a laugh.  “Probably been worse off after a good patrol.”

“Probably,” Liam giggles, shifting restlessly like he’s already starting to feel the effects.

Zayn did that.  A tiny waft of smugness rushes inside of him.

He gives a yawn, stretching again.  There’s an unwanted sting everywhere below his neck.  All his cuts have yet to heal.  Properly bandaged by Liam but still mending.  Zayn tries to get his protesting hisses in check.

“I’ve got pain killers.  Proper strong stuff.  Or just paracetamol if you need it.”

Liam’s offer comes in a quiet tone.  Zayn appreciates it.  His fingers stretch over the sheets, finding Liam’s knee, giving the bone a squeeze.

“Thanks.”

Liam looks chuffed, a right goof with his hair piled in a dodgy mess on his head, cheeks pushing his eyes into thin lines.  It lights a tiny flame in Zayn’s chest―kerosene in his blood.  He pats at an open space next to him and Liam crawls in, bristly stubble on his chin tickling Zayn’s collarbones as he settles in.

A long stretch of quiet fits between them.  He’s used to that.  Zayn _welcomes_ that.  He tunes his ears to Liam’s lazy breaths and considers sleep for just a second.

It’s been years since it’s taken him under.

“Rather massive flat for one person,” Zayn comments, an afterthought.

Liam’s fingers have started mapping out Zayn’s scars again.  Had it been anyone else, Zayn would’ve flinched away.  He’s not comfortable with intimacy.  Or people.

It’s only ever been Liam.

“Trying to budge your way in, Zayn?” Liam laughs.

Zayn sucks in a tight breath.  It’s not that he thought―

Well, _possibly_.  Not a conscious decision.  His mind just wanders sometimes.  And maybe if fixes itself on Liam more times than Zayn wants.  Not that he’d ever fit into this lifestyle―high rises, posh restaurants, luxury meant for silver-spooned twats.  But he could manage with Liam.

Bloody fuck, he’s gone absolutely mad.

“It’s just big,” Zayn says, thoughtlessly.  He sighs, staring at the vaulted ceiling.  “Dunno how you manage on your own.  So empty.  So much space.  And the…”

Soft snores stir Zayn out of his own head.  He blinks down, staring at Liam curled around him, a spot of drool hanging off the corner of his mouth.  All the earlier tension washed from his skin.  He looks so settled, comfortably wrapped around Zayn.

As if this little bit is all he’s ever needed to relax.

Zayn groans but sinks down into the pillows.  Alright, maybe it’s all he needs too.

“Sleep,” he mumbles, to Liam.  To himself.

Pressing a chaste, dry kiss to Liam’s temple, Zayn lets the exhaustion sort him out.

He hasn’t slept in too long.  Next to Liam, warm and still satiated from the shagging, Zayn lets himself drown in what he thinks is honest serenity.

 

+++

 

It’s all a distraction―the shootout at the abandoned club, monopolizing half of Gotham’s PD with violence, keeping Zayn and Liam away.  All a bit of smoke and mirrors.  He’s not aware of it until he looks over the headlines on the morning papers:

**‘Tomlinson Empire Falls… Mark Tomlinson slaughtered by Bat Killer!’**

Blood and gore dressed up in black and white print, shuffled around the city like sugary gossip.  Sick details Zayn can’t stomach.  Glorified rants over Louis and how he’s inherited a mob boss fortune.  This city’s wicked twist on death―celebrated in tabloid rags and dusted over in a day or two when another buggery scandal makes a bigger impact.

But all Zayn can swallow down is Louis’ father is dead.

And he wasn’t around to prevent it.

Louis’ flat―right in the ribs of Gotham, not far off Crime Alley―is as expressive as he is.  Rich blacks and coats of red, lush furniture, a loaded minibar in the lounge, stainless steel in the kitchen.  It’s dark and moody.  Lonely, just as Zayn suspects Louis has always been.

There’s a ton of fanfare in the disguise of footy posters and memorabilia.  Mounted artwork and replicas.  The stench of money and greed everywhere.

It looks trashed, as if Louis’ dismissed the cleaning staff one too many times.  Mugs of cold tea on the counters, plates of stale pizza along the glass coffee table.

Louis’ flat is lived in and empty all at once.  Zayn recognizes that feeling―and how, as much as he hates it, he and Louis are two kindred flames trying not to burn the other one out.

“Get out.”

Zayn stays steely, stood in the middle of the lounge, scanning over all the unclean bits of Louis’ flat.  He ignores the slur in Louis’ voice, no matter how apparent it is.  He refuses to believe there’s any real heat behind Louis’ words.

Louis is sat in nothing but his Topman pants and an unbuttoned Oxford.  His hair is mangled, cheeks and chin ruined by stubble.  Lazy blue eyes do their best to glare at Zayn.  But Louis is out of focus, a complete slob with a bottle of Jack between his fingers.

“How do you take your brew?” Zayn sighs, kicking at empty cardboard takeaway boxes riddling the floor.

Louis grunts, downing another sloppy swallow of Jack.  He waves Zayn off.

Even pissed off his arse, Louis still has a way about himself.  Rude and snobbish.

“Two spoons or three?” Zayn offers, stepping over empty beer bottles.  He’s impressed―Louis has really had at it.  Still conscious, even after all the alcohol he’s pummeled through.  His liver is toast but cheers, Louis’ a fighter.

Louis scoffs, slumping lower on the sofa.  “Don’t be muddling me tea with all the extras,” he groans.  “Just milk.  And stir anti-clockwise.”

“Why?”

“Just _because_ ,” Louis snorts.

He’s not coordinated enough to kick his feet up on the coffee table but Louis gives it a try.  Actually, _four_ tries.  By the fifth, he’s managed not to break the table but knock over everything on it.

Zayn will call that a win.

“Are we going to have a grown up chat about it?” Zayn inquires.

Louis sighs, insufferably long and loud.  He misses his lips with the bottle this time, slicking his neck and chest with amber liquid.  Doesn’t seem to bother him one bit, though.

“Guess not, then,” Louis cackles.  He pushes wrecked hair off his forehead, trying to sit up.  “Actually, I’m rather chuffed the old man is gone.  He was a bother.”

“Was he?”

Louis offers his best annoyed look.  It’s still half-arsed and laughable but Zayn keeps an even face.  He rounds the table, nicking the bottle from Louis’ fingers.

“He can sod off,” Louis calls.  Zayn tosses the bottle in the overflowing bin, not even bothering to search the kitchen for the kettle.

He’s certain Louis hires someone to brew him a cup, add the milk, and probably serve up his tea on the nicest china with a sterling spoon.  Louis is _that_ much of a twat, some days.

“Maybe I’ll rebuild Gotham,” Louis offers, licking at his dry lips.  “Have a go at running this shit-city something proper.  Or I could shove off somewhere else.  How’s Oz this time of year?”

Zayn shrugs, sniffing at expired curry in a boxed container.  It’s rank up close.  Offensive, making Zayn’s upper lip curl into a snarled expression.

“Warm,” he replies, settling back into the lounge.  “Everything is warmer than Gotham.”

Louis laughs and nods, a spectacular accomplish for him.  He wiggles his fingers together, as if he’s developing a master plan.  He’s probably just pissing his pants.

“Could do for a holiday.”

“Running away?” Zayn counters, cocking his head.

He’s waiting on a reaction.  For Louis to finally snap, bubble over with his anger and loss.  But Louis’ face is cloudy for a moment before it turns to panic.  The buzz in his system heightens a gross amount of fear that Louis is dreadful at keeping under wraps.

“People are _dying_ , mate!” Louis spits, his words still dragging a bit.  “All over the place.  Body after body.  And the bloody Bat is all over it!”

Louis has an accusing finger directed at the spread of red across Zayn’s chest, half-hidden under his muddy brown leather jacket.  Zayn chews over his lip, considering.  He watches how Louis curls in on himself, tight little ball like a frightened toddler.  His green-rimmed blue eyes keep looking around, searching for his next bottle of booze or maybe a way out.

A way out of his own bloody mucked up head.

“Hey,” Zayn says in a voice too soft to be his own.  “Alright, mate?”

“Course not!”

A wash of unexpected guilt sinks into Zayn.  Because Louis isn’t exactly his mate but they’ve a bond Zayn knows doesn’t exactly pan out to a happy ending.  And that quarter inch of _care_ circling Zayn’s blood shouldn’t be wasted on Louis Tomlinson.  But he can’t quite help it.

There’s a hint of Zayn in lads like Louis.  The ones who didn’t exactly get a fair shot at choosing their own destiny.

“I can help,” Zayn offers, lifting a hand towards Louis.

Louis scoffs, turning his head.  A bitter laugh tips off his lips.  “Help from a bloody ghost?  ‘S no good.”

Zayn steels himself, dropping his hand.  His face goes tense, rage flooding him.

Another laugh falls out of Louis’ mouth, followed by a series of hiccups.  He blinks up, fringe dead and limp, hanging over into his eyes.

“Reckon you’d rather watch Gotham burn than help anyone, bro,” he says in a slurred whisper.  “What’ve you got left to stick around for?  This place shits on everyone, including _you_.  Not that I loved me old man but haven’t you ever loved someone?  Had a family?”

“Family’s dead, mate,” Zayn grunts.  It doesn’t burn.  It’s a fact―plain and simple.

Louis tips back, uncurling himself.  Laughing and hiccupping like a man gone mad.  “Welcome to the club,” he chokes.  Them, for a considering second, he pauses.  “Or is the other way ‘round now?”

It’s then Zayn notices the little bubble of tears creeping out of the corner of Louis’ eyes.  He’s not certain they’re from sadness―more self-pity or loneliness.

“Christ, bro,” Louis sighs.  He uses the back of his wrist to scrub at his eyes.  “C’mon, haven’t you ever loved anyone?  Wasn’t there _someone_ worth saving?”

Zayn stays quiet, his jaw working mechanically.  He lets the loaded quiet stretch between them, Louis’ glassy eyes on him while Zayn focuses on anything other than Louis’ face.  Being up to gathering his thoughts in one solid stream of thought is something he does best over cigarettes and tea.

Not in front of some dead mobster’s son.  In front of some bloke that could well be a mate… if their lives were entirely different.

And then Zayn’s mind strays to Liam.  The sort of life Liam wants and how he’d fit in lovely with having mates and loving people.  How Liam has probably never struggled to list more than a handful of people he’d die for.

The brick of reality tossed at Zayn’s thoughts sinks quicker than he’s willing to admit―

He’s always envied Liam.  And he’s always loved him, too.

“Am I interrupting a proper doctor-patient therapy session?  This is all a bit like a really good episode of _Breaking Bad_ or summat.”

Zayn reckons he should’ve sniffed Harry out before he strolls in off Louis’ balcony.  He’s a bloody genius at inconveniently showing up in places.

The kid has that edge on Zayn.  Full marks for random appearances.

“Got nothing else to occupy your time with, brat?” Zayn sighs out.

Harry knocks curls away from his domino mask.  He walks a bit goofily in his suit, like his knickers are all bunched up (Zayn remembers going commando quite a few times in the suit; for the fuck-thrill of it, of course) but Harry’s got a bulky build Zayn never managed.  He fills out every bit of the red and green.  His chest makes the _‘R’_ look massive.

He’s a proper mold for a hero.

(Yeah, Zayn doesn’t let _that_ eat away at him for a bit.  Well, he _does_ , actually.)

“Been following you,” Harry admits, standing taller.  Like he’s ready for Zayn’s sarcasm.

Feisty little wannabe-Zayn-bugger.

Zayn lifts an eyebrow, crossing his arms.  He leaves Harry hanging for a bit, just glaring at him.

Harry clears his throat, cheeks bruising with a hint of blush.  “I don’t think you should be doing business with criminals.”

“Didn’t ask.”

“Well,” Harry chokes, still trying to appear stonewalled.  “It’s not the type of thing you should do while wearing _that_ symbol.”

Zayn rolls his eyes, sighing.  “Don’t reckon it’s any of your business.”

Behind his mask, Zayn can tell Harry’s glaring.  His eyebrows are folded wrongly and his cheeks have sunken in with the way his teeth are grinding.  It’s probably impressively imposing to whatever poor criminals Harry towers over.  His best _“Batman face”_ put upon to look menacing.

But it’s all a bit amusing to Zayn.

“Save it, little bird,” Zayn grins.

Harry clucks his tongue, putting on a childish pout.  He wrinkles his nose, still staring at Zayn.

Leave it to Louis to knock the wind out of any poor bloke’s sails.

“Who’s the kid?”

Harry groans and Zayn doesn’t hold in the laugh this time.  Louis stretches out again, legs falling open lazily, eyeing Harry like he’s filet mignon on a menu of expired crisps and stale beer.  He’s daftly fixing his hair and curling a smile up at Harry.

“Nice tights,” Louis comments, the right amount of slurring on his words.  “Bet your arse looks amazing without the cape in the way.”

Harry balks, scratching at his temple like he can’t sort out if Louis is serious or taking the piss.

(the former, of course, if Zayn knows anything about Louis Tomlinson and his indiscretions)

“How _old_ are you?” Louis inquires, clumsily leaning forward.  “Do you have a curfew?”

“Yes,” Zayn snaps when Harry mumbles a quick _‘no’_ at Louis.

Louis snorts, falling back on the sofa again.  “Doesn’t matter.  Have you ever been to Paris?  I have a jet.”

“Is that a chat up line?” Harry asks to Louis, then Zayn.

On cue, Zayn rolls his eyes while Louis waggles his eyebrows.  There’s a rich stain of blush tinting Harry’s cheeks and―not that Zayn’s _looking_ ―a very distinct swelling in the groin of Harry’s kit.

“I don’t fancy mob bosses,” Harry says, matter-of-factly.

“But you fancy blokes?” Louis wonders.

Again, Harry lights up with blush.  He looks ready to flee.  Zayn ticks that as a fantastic idea.  Louis is out of Harry’s league and sixteen isn’t the age where you sort those types of things out.

“That’s not your business,” Harry snaps.

“You’re saucy,” Louis grins, a clever raise of his eyebrows unsettling Harry again.  Louis is sweaty and boozy and clear out of his head but he rubs at his chin like he’s considering.  A shark tracking its prey.

“Back off,” Zayn hisses, directing his eyes at Louis.

It’s not protective.  He doesn’t give a shit for Harry Styles.  It’s just that―his head isn’t entirely screwed on right.  It’s why he saved Harry’s arse last night.  And why he’s keeping Louis off Harry.  His head is clear off and that’s why he’s looking after Harry.

Because Harry is nearly the sort of prat Zayn might’ve been at one point.

Harry turns to Zayn.  He’s frowning.  “Nightwing would be disappointed,” he says in a voice so small it sounds wounded.

Zayn chews the inside of his cheek.  He doesn’t owe Harry an explanation.  He’s got his own reasons for associating with Louis.  Damn Liam if he didn’t get it.

“ _Christ_ ,” Louis hisses, flailing.  “Now you’re working with Bird Boy?  What’ve I let into my kingdom?”

Zayn glares at the floor.  All of this pressure smacks like sick punches to the head.  He feels nauseous.  Ready to spew awful chunks of disappointment all over Louis’ pristine carpet.  He’s not gone this long alone to need Liam’s approval at every bit of his life.

Or to _want_ Liam to steal him away from this wrecked life he’s managed to muck up royally.

“I’m at this alone,” Zayn says gruffly, not directing his words to Louis or Harry.  But they’re for someone in this room.

Harry sucks in a disillusioned breath.  It’s loud, over all the dense quiet seated between them.  Zayn doesn’t care for it.

“That’s not fair,” Harry protests, though his voice is a tad weak.

“Seems about right,” Louis mumbles.  “It’s what the Red Hood does.  An all-star arsehole looking out for number one.”

“I’ve done fine by me’self,” Zayn argues, his voice turning a little too heated.

He’s not looking for any endorsement from either of them.

“Yeah,” Louis tuts.  “It’s what you do, right?  Fix it all by y’self.”

Zayn nods, still not looking up.  He sniffs, itching the side of his nose with a finger.  Right now, he wants the taste of Earl Grey and ash.  Not the bile filling up his throat.

“Reckon I took some pretty great lessons from you, Tomlinson,” Zayn says roughly.  His skin is prickling under his kit.

He doesn’t want Louis or Harry to see.  So Zayn stomps towards the balcony, needing an out.  He’s not got a fuck to give if Harry follows.  Let the brat keep Louis company.  Maybe Harry can keep Louis safe for a bit?

Or Louis will flirt Harry right out of his tight knickers.  Could do Harry some good.

(probably not, Zayn thinks, a laugh tickling his chest)

All of it doesn’t matter much.  He’s off, sticking to Gotham’s rooftops for a clear view.  A clear head.  He can fix Gotham without any help.  He doesn’t need Liam.

Somehow, none of that comes off entirely convincing in his head.

 

+++

 

**Liam**

 

This bit of Gotham is lit like the North Star.  A grand hotel, swanky on its own merit, sparkling like a chandelier in a pitch black house.  Thousands of pounds tossed at a massive ballroom for a charity event.  A _party_ , really, dressed up as a night where the posh pretend to be selfless.

Liam hates these sorts of things.  It’s not his scene.  The tailored tux too tight around his shoulders and bum.  Starch giving his shirt that uncomfortable itch he can’t scratch unnoticed.  Champagne and finger foods served on silver trays―he’d rather have a takeaway from Nando’s.  A room stuffed with millionaires and socialites, a handful of GCPD’s finest, taking the piss while Gotham burns to ash.

Paul was brilliant at this―high society.  Pulling out his best kits and a nice pair of brogues, kissing arse for the sake of making contacts.  One-off chats.  Cheek kisses and winning over a crowd with his easy droll over rebuilding the city into its former glory.

Liam has never been up to it.  He spent his childhood in a traveling circus, then at the manor.  He fancied Paddy’s beans on toast more than saucers of caviar.  Fitting in with this lot always makes him feel like a fish out of water.

After a bachelor’s auction―where Liam is put on display like an endangered species but bought out by sweet Caroline Flack, who’s always fancied a young tart to drag around Gotham―Liam potters around the edges of the ballroom.  He does his best not to make eye contact and fall into another useless chat about economics or Gotham’s golden years.

Honestly, he just wants to shrug out of this tux and watch a good marathon of _Friends_ on his settee.

“Could do for a dirty pub and a pint of Murphy’s right now.”

Liam’s smile is instant.  He’s shuffling by a gorgeous ice creation of a swan when Niall ambles up.  He looks sheepish in his tuxedo, bowtie sat crookedly in the collar, a noticeable stain already on his pressed white shirt, Oxfords scuffed and old.  At least his trousers still look nice.

“A good footy match, too?” Liam offers.

Niall’s smirk nearly takes up his whole face.  “Heard Gotham’s got a decent chance this year.”

Liam laughs, finally settling with the party carrying on around them.  The edge always melts off with Detective Horan around.  Liam takes a sip off his champagne flute―topped off with water because he can’t afford to be pissed around this crowd.

“They’re a bit ragged,” Liam shrugs, glancing around.  “Offense is wonky, on a good day.  But they win mass points off the defensive end.”

Niall nods, still wearing lopsided smile.  It softens his face, even with the bits of unshaven stubble prickling up all around his chin.  There’s creases around his skyline blue eyes.  As if he smiles through everything, even all the murder cases tossed his way.

“This not your bunch?” Liam wonders, waving a lazy hand around to signal their environment.

Again, Niall looks sheepish.  He runs a hand through his already well-tousled hair.  Sniffing, he replies, “Can you tell?  Doesn’t look to be your thing either.”  It’s a throwaway observation from someone as keen and engaged as Niall usually is.

Liam shrugs haphazardly.  A smile blossoms over his lips―ticked higher by Niall’s chuffed response.

“Could use a bag of crisps and a bit of telly.  Kick around me flat instead of―”

Liam sighs and Niall waves his hand around this time, both of them falling into a fit of schoolboy giggles.

“This is all a bit much,” Niall groans.  “They’re celebrating mayhem, really.  Nothing’s been right without Batman around.”

Liam doesn’t comment.  He lets his eyes wander off into the crowd―spotting Officer Preston.  Paul would always have a good laugh with him.  And Ellie, a spitfire from university who comes from money but prefers secondhand frocks and house music.

“He made a difference,” Niall continues.  He goes shamefaced when Liam gives him an odd look.  “Not that, like.  I mean, _you_ make a difference, too, mate.  It’s not that, like―”

Liam smiles gently at all of Niall’s stumbling.  He gives a one-shouldered shrug.

“Could do better,” he offers, looking off again.  “I’m no Batman.”

“None of us are,” Niall says, wryly.  “But you can’t help it, right?  Admiring what that bloke stood for.”

Liam nods, sadly.  He gulps down more water.  Now, something with a hint of kick to it might be welcoming.  Something rich, dark, and hangover-inducing.

“Always wanted to be him,” Niall laughs, sipping at something cool and gold in a small glass.  “As a kid, course.  All the good someone like that can do.  Joined up with the force ‘cause I knew I’d never fit those boots, y’know?  ‘M hardly on that level.”

Liam sucks in a breath.  Niall’s voice comes off easy but Liam can read the melancholy behind it―microscopic as it may be.  That hint of longing.  Liam knows all about it―but on a different level he’s far past mulling over.

“Cheers,” he huffs, raising his glass.  “To our heroes, yeah?”

Niall shoots him an offbeat grin but joins the toast.  After a slow slurp of his drink, Niall adds, “Don’t reckon I can sort out that Red Hood, though.  That lad’s a bit off.”

Liam keeps his face from wincing.  Perfectly still on the exterior.  But there’s a tight knot in his belly he can’t unravel.  His skin prickles with embarrassment but he stays quiet for a moment.

“Yeah,” he finally exhales.  “That makes two of us.”

He’s done well enough not thinking about Zayn.  Or three nights ago when his bed was warm with Zayn’s skinny, bruised up frame.  Even if his body still protests a bit during patrols―the soreness has let up and he’d be a liar if he didn’t admit he misses it.

Being full.  Fingers digging marks into his skin.  Biting kiss from Zayn’s soft and full lips.

In the mirror, he can still see the bruise of Zayn’s teeth marks on his skin.  His sheets still need washing.  The cup and saucer Zayn used the next morning―when they had tea and bacon sandwiches at the kitchen counter like a proper couple―are still sat unwashed.

Zayn’s filthy leather jacket (with rips in it, his smell still pungent) hangs next to Liam’s Nightwing kit in the walk-in closet.

But he’s not pining after Zayn.  Can’t afford to, if he’s honest.  Zayn snuck out when Liam was having a shower and that’s it.  Not a text or a call.  Not a _‘thanks for the shag and saving my arse, can we do dinner soon’_ for Liam to cling to.

Just nothing.

Zayn’s run off again like a… _ghost_.

Liam feels his face grimacing, his mind spun off the path.  Typical.  One good fuck with the lad he’s been mad over for years and he’s bloody ready for a padded room.  Throw away the key, mates.  Liam’s well-cooked.

It’s a relief when Eleanor comes up.  She’s dressed to the heavens, her gown lilac and soft-looking.  Her hair is done up lazily, the way she loves, strands dipping down onto her shoulders.  She looks well embarrassed trying to pose with her crutches.

“You look amazing,” Liam grins.

Next to him, Niall mumbles a compliment.  It comes out as a stutter, then a breath, then an all-out wheeze.  Liam wants to laugh.  Eleanor looks ready to cackle too but she’s composed.

Honestly, she’s fairly remarkable in that right.

“Fantastic,” Niall coughs.  He chugs the rest of his drink, clearing out the dryness in his throat.  “I mean, y’ look right―”

“Thank you, Detective,” Eleanor smiles to stop him.  Crests of blush circle her cheeks, her eyes dropping from Niall’s face to his suit.  “You too.”

Liam rolls his eyes, catching the way Niall starts to sweat and go red.  He ought to just leave them to it, though he knows Niall and Eleanor are too shy to take this past mindless chattering.

“Nice evening,” Liam says, in the interim.

Eleanor grins at him, nodding.  Niall joins in, stammering about the sky or constellations.  Liam thinks he babbles on about Jupiter and Roman mythology.  It all comes out forced, which only makes Liam want to laugh more.

“Wouldn’t mind a pint and being sat around in sweats, though,” Eleanor sighs.

Niall lights up instantly.  “Yeah,” he chuckles.  “A good veg-out with crisps and music.  A chilled atmosphere.”

Eleanor nods eagerly, more bits of her hair coming loose.  Liam wonders if Niall wants to fix them back into place.  Notices Niall’s hand twitching at his side.

It all makes Liam smile on the inside.

“It’s not all bad,” Eleanor comments.  “Was having a proper nice chat with Officer Edwards, over there.  She’s much into plants and flowers.  Very passionate, even.”

“Who?  Pezza?”  Eleanor nods eagerly at Niall’s inquiry, leaning more into his direction.  Niall grins, settling back into himself.  “Very much so.  Studies that whole flowery-thingy.  Um, y’know, the―”

“Botany,” Liam offers.  He snorts, catching the way neither Niall nor Eleanor have even noticed him anymore.

Niall nods slowly, eyes caught on Eleanor.  She’s staring back, fighting a smile and a heap of blush.  They sway a bit, not exactly with the boring music playing overhead as much as the beat of their erratic hearts.  It’s sickening, Liam thinks.

“You’d think she’d kill over a stepped-on daisy or summat,” Niall jokes.  “Might have to build a case file off her in the future.”

Eleanor giggles along, nodding.  “Never seen someone so into ivy and the bits.”

Smiling incredulously, Liam decides for them.  He’s seen this enough― _done this_ enough, actually.  The whole ‘dance around your feelings’ thing that Eleanor and Niall are absolute pros at.

“Fancy a dance?” he asks Eleanor.

She goes pale pink, biting her lip.  All the considering, while she steals glances at Niall, confirms it for Liam.

“Sure,” Eleanor whispers.

“Brilliant,” Liam grins back.  Then, he grabs Niall by the elbow, fingers digging in, shoving him towards Eleanor.  “Got me a clever lad who needs to practice his waltz.  Get to it Detective.”

Niall wans for a moment and Eleanor shoots Liam a shocked look―all hyperbole from Liam’s view.  He ignores both of them, giving Niall’s bum a pert smack before winking at Eleanor.  He’s no matchmaker and hardly friends with Cupid, but Liam’s fed up with wasted opportunities.

Not everyone in Gotham gets a second chance.

(Irony sits on his chest, mocking, because Zayn got a second chance at life.  And Liam got a second chance at Zayn.  It’s a shame that he can’t easily sort that out like he does Niall and Eleanor.)

Liam trots off, away from the crowd.  Towards the glass doors of a balcony, the back gardens screaming fresh air and an endless look of evergreen.

The night stretches around him like a periwinkle silk duvet.  Stars pinprick too far away to matter.  And its cooler here, less stuffy.  The noise of chatter from the inside turns muffled on the balcony.  Like all the voices are caught in a vacuum.

Liam fancies the silence.  He can still hear music, dull and soft.  His heart tries to slow to its tempo.

He fishes out his phone, considers ringing up Harry.  Making sure he’s studying.  Focused on anything other than suiting up and sorting out Gotham’s madness.

Liam thinks better of it.  Harry doesn’t need a parental figure.  Liam reckons Harry could use a mate.  Or a boyfriend, given his age.  A nice distraction in the form of those butterflies in your stomach, staring at your phone until it finally lights up with a new text.  Stupid things.

Things Liam doesn’t remember having.  Not after they buried Zayn, at least.

“It’s dead in there.”

Liam freezes, then relaxes at the scent of cigarettes and sweet musk.  He’s curved over the railing, staring out at the listless amounts of green.  But his skin warms when he recognizes Zayn sidling up next to him.

“S’ppose that’s my fault, right?  Never invite a zombie to a good party.”

“Were you invited?” Liam asks, raising an eyebrow.

Zayn chuffs up, snorting.  “Reckon I have a standing invitation via our dead guardian, yeah?”

Liam shrugs.  The chill from the wind counters all the anxious energy building under his skin.  Zayn’s shoulder presses into his but he doesn’t move away.  Probably out of instinct, but also out of necessity.

Every organ inside of him craves these little touches from Zayn.

Knocking his wild thoughts down, Liam stares off into the gardens.  Out into the stretch of green climbing up everything.  Beyond the wall is a crumbling city he’s grown tired of looking at.  But here―the world is painted moss and the night stirs quiet.

“It’s nice,” Zayn comments.  His shoulder digs a little closer.  “Out here, I mean.  Not the shit-show happenin’ inside.”

Liam grins, ducking his head.  His fingers knot together to keep from reaching for Zayn’s hand.

Fate must be cruel, because Zayn reaches over to brush a few fingertips over Liam’s knuckles with a crooked smile.

An exhale rolls past Liam’s lips.  He takes Zayn in for the first time―his dark hair loose, white stripes flat over his brow.  Neatly-framed glasses pushed up his nose.  He’s shaven, but not completely.  And he’s hardly dressed for a charity ball with black skinnies, a wrinkled button-up, brand new leather bomber jacket probably nicked off a mannequin at a Topman shop.

But he looks like a Zayn that Liam can’t stop falling headfirst for.

“No weapons?” Liam teases, biting down on half his grin.

Zayn eases back some, tugging at the hem of his shirt.  Tucked in the waist of his trousers―his favorite twin Glock 26s.

Liam snorts, shaking his head.  He’s hardly the head on him to make a fuss.  Instead, he sidesteps until he and Zayn are shoulder-to-shoulder once more.

“This isn’t my,” Zayn pauses, looking down at his hands.  “I don’t fancy this sort of scene, y’know.  It’s not _me_.  Used to hate when Paul would drag me to things like this.  I feel so daft ‘round this lot.”

A smile bunches over Liam’s lips.  It’s incredibly hard to contain but he manages.  For a second or two, at least.

Zayn’s still glaring at his hands.  Scars around his knuckles and dirt under his nails.  He’s a wreck, losing confidence quick.  Caught in the undertow of his own thoughts, a tight crowd of wrinkles along his brow.

“You know,” he sighs, lifting his eyes.  They’re a husky gold this deep into the night.  “Honestly, ‘m only here t’ make sure some of these arseholes donate to the orphanage.  ‘S all I care about.  The rest of this crowd can go fuck themselves… long as they give to the children.”

This time, Liam’s hand eases the half-inch between them.  It smooths over the back of Zayn’s hand, fingers curling into the spaces between Zayn’s.  Fixing into a slot Liam wants to call permanent.

Zayn holds his stare.  Liam doesn’t blink.  It takes a tick but Zayn’s mouth goes soft and goofy.

“You really care for that place.”

Shrugging, Zayn finally ends the staring contest.  He looks a little less wound up but still caught in his own head.  Liam knows the feeling.

“As much as a dead man can care about stuff,” Zayn replies, nonchalant.

Liam stays quiet, even though he wants to say much more.  His hand pulls in slow sweeps over Zayn’s, learning every scar and rough knuckle and how pliant Zayn’s veins feel.  The music sounds louder, reaching over the sounds of the city.  It’s something by Bastille, unrecognizable at first.

But Liam sorts it out by the third or fifth note―

_‘Are you going to age with grace?  Are you going to age without mistakes?’_

Zayn clears his throat, wicked smirk lifting his lips.  He turns to Liam, twisting his hand until their palms kiss.  His spare hand smooths up Liam’s hip.

“Fancy a dance?”

Liam tips his head back, laughing.  He feels the rush of blush hit like the tide, starting at his chest and rolling up.  There’s no one around and the full-bloom purple night is dense above.  He feels mad.  Absolutely out of his mind and since when has that ever mattered?

“Are you still quite horrible at it?” Liam asks.  But he’s already stepping into Zayn’s space.

Zayn shrugs, tilting his head.  He looks embarrassed but game.

It’s enough for Liam.  He wiggles his eyebrows at Zayn, squaring his stance while his other hand leads down Zayn’s back.  He gets a quick handful of Zayn’s bum before giggling, palming the small of Zayn’s back.

“Tease,” Zayn says roughly.

“Tart,” Liam counters, his face going serious.  He’s got an inch or two on Zayn, having to look down to get a full view of Zayn’s eyes like this.

Zayn’s breath goes uneven.  There’s a thick dew of vulnerability around his eyes.  He’s shy and nothing like the bloke marching around Gotham ready to shoot off anyone’s head for the fuck of it.

“Shall we?”

Liam doesn’t wait for Zayn to respond.  He guides them, slow turns and clumsy steps.  They sway in a semi-circle, something simple for Zayn to keep up with.  Also, it makes it easy for Liam to stare at Zayn’s glossy amber eyes rather than their feet to make sure they’re not stepping over each other.

Somewhere, between the shaky breaths and soft music, Zayn braces a hand on the nape of Liam’s neck.  He gives a tentative pull but Liam goes right with it.  Like a magnet.

Zayn starts the kiss―chapped lips, nerves set into his jaw.  But it feels incredible.  Liam’s eyes shut for the jolt that sizzles through him.

“For the other night,” Zayn explains, quietly.

He doesn’t offer anything else.  Just another brushing kiss that’s seconds too short.

Liam groans, shaking his head.  How one lad can be so utterly frustrating and quite lovely at once boggles Liam.

His fingers fist the collar of Zayn’s jacket, giving a tug until Zayn stumbles up into it.  Liam kisses like he’s on the verge.  He can’t name _what_ it is but he’s there.

He kisses in long, firm strokes.  The pressure will probably leave his mouth swollen and red.  He takes comfort in that.  Another physical reminder of Zayn to go along with all the little marks Zayn’s made all over his heart.

Because Liam doesn’t know if he’s ever really thought about it―being madly in love with Zayn.  How it’s wrecked him.

Or how he’s never really been in Zayn’s shadow―he’s just wanted to be fearless like Zayn.

 

+++

 

**Zayn**

 

So he’s a bit of a creeper.  He’ll admit it to almost no one.  But he’s done this too often now―

There’s five different species of trees planted in the gardens of Higgins Manor.  Zayn can’t name any of them.  Maple?  Elm?  Cherry?  Zayn hedges that bird Officer Perrie Edwards would know all the trees planted here.  He should’ve paid more attention during his studies.  Zayn reckons Paul told him about each one at least six times before.

His memory has been a bit foggy since the Pit.  If he’s honest, he only remembers bits and scrapes of the small things in life.

Except for Liam.  Liam comes in bright, colorful sick waves all of the time.  Every memory of that lad plays like a Disney film―sugary saturated and loud.

It’s why Zayn’s ducked off behind one of the massive trees in the garden.  To stare off at Liam, hidden.

The evening is curling towards twilight.  Everything is a thick orange and purple, the sun a dot dying somewhere west of Gotham.  There are clumping shadows making shapes on the lawn, mostly drawn by the massive trees and their stretched out limbs.

It hides Zayn from view.  He prefers that.

Zayn has gone off doing this too much―following Liam.  Keeping a distance.  It’s not―he’s just watching over him, alright?

Keeping Liam safe.

Admiring him like a lovesick Romeo―tragedy and all those bits aside―or summat.

Zayn sighs, biting over his bottom lip.  He pulls at the collar of his jacket, keeping his back to the soft breeze that knocks around.  It whips his hair out of place.  Slants his vision with its chilly whip.  But he keeps focused on Liam.

Harry is in the garden, shadowboxing at the animal-shaped hedges and bushes.  He looks intent.  And goofy.  But he knocks about while Liam stretches out on a stone bench, a pile of textbooks around him.

He’s revising, like always.  Nearly the same time, every day.  Pen cap between his teeth, highlighter streaks staining his fingers, cuddled in his favorite Gotham U jumper.  His nose always crinkles when he comes upon a troubling passage.  There’s always deep wrinkles in his brow while he reads.

Zayn groans to himself.  He’s not meant to find this bloke so frustratingly adorable.  Honestly, how daft is he?  A stone killer getting soppy over a childhood crush.

Pathetic, meet Zayn Malik.

“There’s a reason why he chose you.”

For a half-second, Zayn freezes.  His bones chill over.  But he recognizes the calm pull of Paddy’s voice and twists halfway around to greet Paddy with a sharp nod.  Paddy grins back, age wearing his face rough.

He sidles up, a proper china cup topped with tea cupped in his hands.  Paddy passes it over to Zayn.

“Cheers,” Zayn mumbles, half-arse gratitude ringing in his voice.

Paddy nods back, fisting his clean jacket closed.  He’s a burly bloke.  Muscles and height and a menacing face when he’s right arsed with someone.  Zayn knows.  He’s met that face one too many times sneaking back into the manor after an undisclosed night out.

“Have at it,” Paddy says, nodding at the tea.

Zayn takes a quiet sip.  He hisses under his breath.  Bloody fuck, Zayn’s missed Paddy’s tea.  It’s the right edge of steamy and milky.  And there’s always the scent of ginger shavings coming off it―the kind of spice in his brew Zayn can’t find anywhere else.

“He had his reasons,” Paddy adds, crossing his arms.

Zayn sighs, rolling his eyes.  He takes another sip.  “Reckon I’ve heard this story before, mate.  About how the fearless Paul Higgins rescued a poor, wee lad who lost his parents.  Who was bound to live on the streets.  No future.”

Paddy sets his face into a blank expression.

Zayn continues.  “Some kid who needed guidance.  Brutal honesty.  And Paul takes him in.  Trains him to appreciate this city.  Rattles on about the beauty of heroism over revenge.”

Paddy hums, thoughtfully.  His eyes stray off to the sunset.

“Yeah, I’ve heard it,” Zayn grunts, halving the tea with long pulls.  It settles him and the anger threatening to bubble up.  “Except, I wasn’t the first to get the full-on _poor-lad-turned-sidekick_ treatment.”

Jerking his head towards Liam, Zayn frowns―mouth unset by the wavy crinkles near Liam’s eyes when he hacks out a laugh at something Harry’s done.  He’s not daft.  Zayn’s quite aware of his place in the Batman chain.  And the link that came before him.

“That’s all Paul did,” Zayn sighs, Paddy too quiet next to him.  “Save some poor lad’s arse because he couldn’t save himself.  Always trying to fix what he didn’t break.”

Paddy looks thoughtful, eyes still fixed on the dipping fireball of a sun.  He sniffs, giving a tight shrug.

“He did care quite a bit about the well-being of the city’s youth.”

Zayn laughs, rough and from deep in his chest.  “Yeah, well, I was just a cheap imitation of the Boy Wonder.”  Unintentionally, he shifts a glare in Liam’s direction.  “And junior over there,” he adds, jutting his chin at Harry, “is just a discounted version of me.”

Paddy squint at Harry, the sun casting harsh red rays over him.  He chuckles.

“You think so?”

Annoyed, Zayn raises his eyebrows until they nearly touch his hairline.

Paddy exhales a heavy breath.  He’s watching over Harry and Liam now.  A good protector.  The sort of bloke that would willing throw his body in the way of a missile for those two.

Zayn, too.  It’s the one comforting certainty Zayn has about Paddy.

“Y’know, you were never very good at sneaking out,” Paddy says, smiling, like the words aren’t just an afterthought.  “I’d always catch you.”

Zayn stares wide-eyed at Paddy, exasperated.  Paddy snorts, his whole body shaking.  It makes Zayn shrink a bit.

“Got past you a few times,” he whines.

“I saw you _every_ _time_ ,” Paddy argues, still grinning.  “But I understand a lad needs to be a lad, sometimes.  Free to be himself.  To discover things.”

The last part comes with a distinct eyebrow raise and Zayn feels flush attack him like a pack of scavengers.  He’s certain Paddy’s _implying_ something but not saying it.  All of his secrets are vault-safe.  Another thing Paddy is brilliant at.

“Master Higgins never understood much of that,” Paddy exhales.  There’s a pinch to his expression, like it still aches to mention Paul around any of them.

Zayn swallows, deflating.  He’s faired pretty well not dwelling on how Paul’s death has affected anyone else.  Shoved his own hatred so far into his brain that wafting through other emotions seems pointless.

But watching Paddy fight for composure cracks that ten-foot wall he’s done so well to build.

Zayn’s eyes fix on Liam, again.  He’s still stretched out on the stone bench, laughing through Harry’s poor attempts at wrestling a hedge.  Liam looks soft and mussed.  Crinkles pronounced around his eyes.  His skin tan, shadowy stubble around his jaw.  It’s hard to look away.

“And Master Higgins wasn’t the _‘he’_ I was referring to at the first,” Paddy mentions.

Zayn’s brow scrunches up.  He tilts his head at Paddy, confused.  Paddy lets out another laugh.  He seems eased, chatting about anything other than the missing link in this chain.

Paddy hums gently, running his eyes over Liam.  “ _He_ chose you because you wear your scars, not to show the world how hard life has been,” he says, his voice gone serious.  “You wear them to show everyone you survived.  Master Liam wants that― _to survive_.  To escape a life he didn’t choose for himself.”

Zayn feels a bit helpless―all of it bleeding into his marrow.  He sucks in a breath a tad too sharp for his lungs to recover from.  At his sides, his hands shake and the cold draft of the wind at his back feels so appropriately cleansing.

After a beat, Paddy starts to walk away.  He moves out from the shadows created by the trees, into the haze of orange and purple twilight provides.

Over his shoulder, Paddy says, “We don’t choose whom we fall in love with, Master Malik.”

Zayn’s gut twists into knots the size of fists.  They loosen, only slightly, when Paddy shoots him a wide grin.

“But we choose to stay in love with them because it fills that part of ourselves we choose not to love.”

When Paddy’s clear out of chatting distance, Zayn lets out a breath that lightens the burn on his lungs.  His hands are still shaking.  Of course they are.  He feels a right mess and avoiding staring at Liam seems to be his only defense mechanism.

He just needs to clear his head.  Have at a pack of smokes, get away.  Hiding off in the shadows, waiting for Liam to find him is probably the daftest idea he’s had, ever.

Well, other than falling head over trainers in love with Liam.

 

+++

 

**Liam**

 

At first, it feels like clouds in his vision.  Sick grey clouds misting up everything.  And then it turns into a haze, blurry images.  He can’t wrap his head around any of it.  Liam can’t quite remember _where_ or _when_ or _how_ and it makes him suffocate on a breath.  He chokes, loud and hacking.  His body trembles, everything out of sorts and achy.

It hits him―Liam was on patrol.  Not the rooftops tonight.  On his motorcycle, chasing the edges of the city with a lazy effort.

And then blackness.  Not a thing in his head makes sense and his wrists _ache_ ; his jaw, too.

Liam lurches, kicking and screaming a little.  His lungs feel under water but his head throbs like he’s been smashed by a paving truck.  He’s on the ground, rolled onto his side, hands tied behind his back by something tight and tough.

He takes in his surroundings, harsh overhead light stinging at his retinas.  A warehouse?  There’s so much dark space around him.  And the scent of kerosene.  The floor is mucked and dirty and cold.

“Shit,” he hisses, the ache in his jaw never dulling.

There’s a spotty stain of blood on the cement―dried bits crusting over in his hair.

Some tosser’s got him good.  A proper fist to Liam’s jaw, probably a boot to his stomach too.  And something’s struck his head, providing him a proper headache and hazy vision.

“Brilliant, Payno,” he grunts, rolling to his stomach.  He wrinkles his nose, working through all of the bits of him that throb.

“Stop fidgeting.”

Liam groans softly, shifting over to his side again, looking up through paper-thin vision.

Two massive blokes stand over him, casting thick shadows.  Liam assesses their weapons―semi automatics, the safety’s on.  They look well ready to point them at Liam’s head if he mouths off at them but Liam gathers they’d be a poor shot.  Amateurs, given their edginess.

“The boss’ll be in soon.”  The other one smirks, missing a few teeth and with a scraggly beard.  He’s probably harmless in a good fist fight.

It’s a shame Liam’s hands are caught behind his back.

Unfortunately, Liam twists the wrong way trying to get a good look around, searching for escape routes.  A sharp twinge―starting at his ribs and working itself all the way into his spine―makes him hiss loudly and roll back the other way.

 _Christ_.  A few cracked ribs, probably.  He licks at his bottom lip and it’s the first recognition that it’s split, crusted blood over the wound down the middle of it.

The one with the rough beard smiles at Liam’s realization.  Right.  He’s a proud wanker looming over a tied up victim.

Liam likes those odds.

“What’s that bastard boss of yours want?  Pounds?  I’ve got loads of ‘em.  Let me go!”

Liam freezes on the floor at the noise of another voice―far off in his head but close proximity judging by the volume.  His breaths are already coming out rough but he quiets them.  He’s not alone in here.

Twisting his head to have a proper look, Liam eyes the one bloke he’d never want to be holed up with in a life or death situation―

 _Louis Tomlinson_.

He’s struggling, obviously chained to a barrel in the corner.  His hair is sweat-damp, sticking to his head.  His pristine Topman shirt is mucked and torn half-open, buttons popped away.  The sheen of dirt and sweat on his tan skin is a terrible addition to the constant scowl he always wears.  His trousers are spotted with mud, as if he’d been dragged here.

And there’s blood smeared from the corners of his mouth, fading down his neck and exposed chest like smeared watercolor paint.

“I can pay you triple whatever he’s got you on for!” Louis shouts.

Under all the artificial rage, Liam spots the cracks in Louis’ armor.  He’s afraid.  A kid trying to wear his father’s suit.

“Shut it,” one of them spits, Liam too lazily to turn and identify which one.  “You’ve got nothing we need.  Proper piece of shit, your whole family.  A stain ‘round here.”

“Fuck off,” Louis bites back.  He struggles harder to free himself but it’s useless.

Liam tucks his chin, calming his breaths.  It hurts too much to inhale deeply.  And he needs to concentrate.  He’s an escape artist by trade; a proper contortionist when needed.  If he can stall these wankers, he can wiggle free of whatever’s binding his wrists.

“Could take your head clear off Tomlinson,” Beardy Guy snarls.  “And this city wouldn’t miss ya.  So you fuck off.”

“Lads, lads, lads. ‘S not the proper way to treat guests.”

A laugh rings into the hollowed out warehouse.  It echoes in the acoustics.  And Liam knows that _laugh_ , has felt it scratch his eardrums in his dreams.  Well, his nightmares, actually.  It’s the sort of noise you can’t get out of your head for the worst possible reasons.

Liam’s skin prickles like there’s ice in his blood.  He lifts his head just enough to watch someone stepping out from the cool shadows in the background.

Greasy hair dyed a shoddy green.  Pale makeup smeared over wrinkled laughter lines.  Streaks of red over the mouth, smudged high up his cheeks.  Wild eyes nearly yellow where they should be white.  The mucky purple and green suit―a trademark, like the laugh.

He has a lazy walk that’s partly cheery.  Like all this energy is raging off of him.  Behind him, a handful of armed men march in.  Six or seven?  Liam’s vison is too muddled to keep count.

“Y’see, I never quite got it,” the Joker starts, his manic grin ugly in the warehouse lighting.  “The Bat Killer?  _The Bat Killer_.  Over and over.  ‘S all I hear and I don’t get it.  Is it s’ppose t’ mean I killed the Bat or that the Bat murdered this city a long, long time ago?  Am I a copycat?  Figuratively?  Literally or…”

Liam’s shallow breaths are loud in his ears.  He doesn’t struggle when the Joker pulls close enough.  Not when he gets a proper view of the knife in one hand, a rusted crowbar in the other.

But he can pick out Louis’ shaky inhales a few meters away.

“Am I legendary like that bastard in a cape was?” the Joker smirks.

Liam swallows tangy copper saliva―leftover blood from his lip.  He narrows his eyes at the Joker.

Joker shrugs, tiptoeing around, spinning his knife.  “Can’t speak, Boy Wonder?  Have ya seen a ghost lately?”

His laugh, wild and unhinged, creeps a shiver up Liam’s spine.  He chokes a bit on the blood clogging up his throat, closing his eyes.

“Help him stand, lads,” Joker calls.  “I want t’ give this lovely lad a proper look.”

Liam barely struggles against the pair of arms hauling him up.  There’s a sharp pressure below his calf preventing him from standing on his own.  A twisted ankle, probably.  It throbs in an odd way and he can’t put any weight on it.

“Oi, lads, lads,” Joker cackles.  “You’ve gone and banged him up too much.  He’s a right state.”

When Liam flutters his eyes open, there’s the cold steel of a knife at his jugular.  He doesn’t flinch back.  The tip pinches at his skin without penetrating.

“Y’see,” Joker sighs, wrinkles deep in his brow, “There’s a story behind everything.  Like these scars―”

He smiles wide until Liam can make out the jagged scars stretching up from the corners of his mouth, high into his cheeks.  They’re sick and deep, the way Liam always remembers them being.

“Was just like all of those other chavs Gotham ignores.  A young bloke lookin’ for good money.  A proper wage,” Joker explains.  He licks at his lips repeatedly.  “Had a name, too.  _Ben_.  Ben Winston.  Benny Ben Winston.”

Behind Liam, Louis sucks in a breath like a kettle whistling.  Recognition, no doubt.  Another unearthed clue.

“That’s right junior,” Joker calls over Liam’s shoulder but he’s still gleaming at Liam.  “Daddy’s little pet project.  Best lad in the gang.”

The knife drags in an uneven line down Liam’s throat.  It nicks his skin and Liam tries not to exhale when warm blood drips down the collar of his kit.

“Um, well, until I got a bit I dunno,” Joker pauses, rocking back on his heels.  “What’s the word?”

“Psycho,” Louis spits.

Joker shakes his head, tutting.  “No, no.  Too polite.  Let’s not be rubbish with this, junior.  Give us a proper word.”

“Mental,” Liam breathes.

Humming, Joker licks his painted lips again.  “Could do.  I fancy that one, Boy Wonder!  Mental.  Manic.  I didn’t know an ally from some smug bastard who owed the boss a few pounds.  Offed all of them, happily.”

Liam turns his head just enough that the knife misses his Adam’s apple.  The blurry spots behind his eyes start to fade but the adrenaline makes it difficult for him to think.  He should’ve calculated a way out by now, a proper escape route.

“So the boss kicked me out.  I was gutted,” Joker continues, finally pulling the knife away.  “And he made sure I wouldn’t squeal―shut me right up.  Chemicals, then.  Poor Benny Winston―off his rocker with the chems they fed me.  Put me in a right state of mind.”

Joker taps the end of his crowbar to his temple for emphasis.

“So you killed him,” Louis growls.  Liam can hear him still trying to fight the chains.  Useless, by lack of skill.

“I offed ‘em _all_ , junior,” Joker crows.  “All the bloody tossers who did business with him.  The dirty cops, too.  Think I might’ve done away with a few innocent ones, too, but does it really matter?  Y’see, everyone has a temptation.  There’s a clause to every contract.  _Fine-print_ , they call it.  So there’s no telling what would’ve bought them out eventually.”

He steps away, howling.  Liam slumps, the weight of his injuries too heavy to stay upright.  He’s still being pinned by the two indignant blokes behind him.  Honestly, he’s thankful they keep him from falling face-first into cement.

“But the Batman―that wasn’t me,” Joker says, sounding remorseful.  “Made for a brilliant cover-up though.  _Oh_.  And the return of that ghost mate of yours, Boy Wonder.  Easy pickings, then.”

The heat behind Liam’s face is probably noticeable.  He doesn’t hide it.  But he tries to slow his heart at the mention of Zayn.

“Oh, yes.  I’ve only just sorted out that the little Red Hood is the dead bird boy I did in me’self,” Joker preens.

This time, Liam struggles.  All of his organs shift wrongly and his skull pulses like he’s been set on fire but he fights.  It’s wasted effort, the twats behind him far stronger.  Their rough hands crush the circulation out of his arms.  His throat strains for words but there’s too much bile and blood there, at the moment.

“He’s done a clever job of mucking up me plans,” Joker snarls, stepping back into Liam’s space.  “And there you are helping him along.  You Bats―y’never quite die, do you?”

The length of the crowbar drags up Liam’s injured ribs, the round end tapping against Liam’s sternum.

“But shall we see how much you bleed?”

Mentally, Liam inspects his injuries.  He’s got enough sense left in his warped head to know his limitations.  Wonders how many of these wankers he can take down before he goes down, too.  From all the internal bleeding.  Or just the pure exertion.

Liam reckons he’s better off swallowing his fate.  Oh, she’s a clever one― _fate_ , that is.  Always knocking about his life, waiting for him to finally fall from the trapeze.  Wide arms willing and ready to catch him, drag him six feet under the dirt so he can finally rest.

 _Rest_.  It’s all he wants.  Just to leave all of this behind.

Maybe he should let the Joker have his way and be done with it.

“Another party and no invite?”

What’s left of Liam’s vision beams into focus.  He’s missed the skylight window cracking overhead, shards of glass falling downward like artfully crafted stars.  But he makes out the smokescreen fogging around him―and then, the flashes of canary and crimson.

He’s too knackered to put up a fight against the men behind him but their grips are loosening.  Too distracted by how, one by one, the other thugs are taken to the ground.

Liam’s jaw aches but his lips still manage a half-arse grin when he recognizes Harry’s sweaty flop of curls as he makes do of two more blokes.

“I’m starting to think we’re not even mates, ‘Wing.  Haven’t ya got a mobile or summat?  Give us a ring when you’re having a proper shin-ding,” Harry huffs.

He’s quick, one of Harry’s finer talking points, but a little less agile on his feet as he is with his fists.  Liam watches through hazed eyes as Harry dips under poorly thrown fists and manages around gunshots.  A proper carbon-copy of a younger Liam but with bigger bullocks―or fewer inhibitions.

“Well, well,” Joker cackles.  He swings the crowbar blindly into the smoke.  “Tonight’s entertainment has finally arrived!”

It’s a no brainer for Harry―take out the muscle before attacking the heart.

Or _heartless_ , Liam muses, still restrained and slumping.  He wants to give it a go, aid Harry before the witless brat falls into harm’s way.

But he can’t.  His muscles are tightening uncomfortably to keep him functioning.  His nerves are probably the next to go if he’s not properly attended to.

“Don’t worry,” Harry laughs, springing around some wanker’s neck with his thighs, taking him down in a pretty sick acrobatic move, “I’ve brought extras.  Can’t show up to any event empty-handed.  I’ve got manners.”

Liam’s ears recognize the click of twin safety’s being released before a calculated string of bullets buzz by either side of his neck.  The blokes pinning him hit the cement underfoot with a sick thud and Liam crumples to his knees.

“Shit,” he hisses on contact.

His breathing hurts in indescribable ways.  Bowed head too heavy to lift for a second, Liam licks blood from his mouth.  He hates the taste.  Sweet metal that sticks to his palate.

Raising his head, Liam spots Zayn.  Swift, relentless Zayn crippling men with his Glocks but not killing them.  Well, he’s probably leaving one too many holes in their bodies but they’re all flesh wounds.  Bloody reminders of Zayn’s one fleeting moment of mercy.

If he’s honest, Liam doesn’t think Zayn would be so compassionate had Liam not been around.  But that’s the thing―Zayn is _trying_ to be lenient.  For Liam’s sake.

He’s leaving these wankers still breathing.

Except the two blokes that were restraining Liam.  They’re dead.  And Liam’s not sure if he should be offended or take it as a compliment―as if Zayn can’t control his rage when he witnesses anyone harming Liam.

“Alright?” Harry asks, knelt down next to Liam.  Gloved fingers tuck under Liam’s chin, lifting his face into view.

The harsh lighting of the warehouse hurts his already cloudy eyes.  Sparks turning into black holes along his vision.  Liam winces, trying to tug away, when Harry’s hand cups his jaw.

“Right,” Harry grins.  “Got y’self pretty busted up, did you?”

Liam grunts.  His shoulders are slack in this position, his whole body ready to curl inward.  But he breathes out a deep exhale, clearing his head a bit.

“What’re you doing here?”

“Um, I was,” Harry stumbles, the exposed bits of his creamy skin going flower pink.  He’s well at hiding his eyes under his mask but his twitching mouth gives away his nerves.  “I might’ve been following―”

Liam squints his eyes, waiting to hear that Harry’s been shadowing him on patrol.

“―see, I was just looking after,” Harry peeks over Liam’s shoulder, over to a very shocked Louis, “He’s just.  I mean, I dunno, Li.  He’s got a way about him and―”

Swallowing a mouthful of saliva and blood is the only thing that keeps Liam from lecturing Harry.  Or laughing manically.  Because this is bloody _ridiculous_.

Harry fancies Louis.

Louis Tomlinson, heir to the Tomlinson crime family.  Rich prick Tomlinson.  Intolerable Louis Tomlinson, who has never―

“Am I not dead yet?” Liam sighs, caving in a bit.  “This feels like ‘m dead.”

Harry offers him an incredulous look, intense in ways only Harry can be.  “C’mon now,” he pouts.  “It’s just a crush.  And he was a _suspect_ , so I was making sure―”

“He didn’t need help tucking his prick back in his trousers after a wee?” Liam says, his voice hoarse but teasing.  Managing to take the piss while in his current state is something Liam is fondly proud of.

Again, Harry goes a dreadfully warm pink.  Liam thinks Louis mutters some sort of disgust behind him but he ignores it.  He’s got an imperfect stare going with Harry, hopefully mentally giving Harry his permission just to _live_.

Fancy whomever.  Get a proper relationship.  A proper heartbreak.  Whatever he wants other than trying to follow in Batman’s muddy foot trails.

“Chat about this later?” Harry offers.

Weakly, Liam nods.  It hurts even to do that much.

“Think I ought to give your boyfriend a hand?” Harry suggests.

Even with the blood rushing his ears and all his organs screaming for comfort, Liam catches the mocking in Harry’s voice.  The way he’s taking the piss, too.  How _pleased_ he looks when Liam recognizes it.

And, also, Liam registers that Harry _knows_.  That he’s not dumb about any of this.  How clever he is, sorting out Liam’s feelings for Zayn and, hopefully, Zayn’s feelings for Liam.

Yep.  He’s gone out of his mind.  Fate, she’s sounding a trumpet because Liam hasn’t even sorted out if Zayn feels the exact same way Liam does.

“He’s not my―”

“Titles, titles,” Harry waves him off, smirking, full-on dimples displayed.  “Doesn’t matter, mate.  He sniffed me out.  Knew something was up.  Made me spill all about Tomlinson until it led us to―”

“How lovely; the gang’s all here now.”

The last bit of Harry’s words are cut off by a strangled yelp.  Thick, paint-smudged fingers fist into Harry’s curls, dragging him backwards and onto his feet.  The pull stretches his neck into a strained column of clean flesh.  And then the shine of the Joker’s knife runs coolly over Harry’s throat.

Harry’s tall, bulky in the right places but he’s caught off guard.  Not properly prepared for the Joker’s grip, the way he settles his forearm at the base of Harry’s neck, cutting off an even flow of oxygen.

“Thanks bird brain,” Joker wheezes, his laughter overwhelming.  “I reckoned if I had the first Boy Wonder, I’d attract a bit of attention from our Dead-Man-Walking Robin.”

A few yards away, Zayn’s got his pistols trained on Joker.

He’s done away with the red helmet, hair out of place and sticking up.  Sweat drips off his temples.  Plush lips are pulled into a tight line, probably aided by how tense Zayn’s jaw is.

It’s all a bit nightmarish―the way Joker has Harry trapped.  The steel look on Zayn’s face as if he doesn’t care.  Because this is his opportunity.

Because someone’s done away with Paul.  Took that sweet revenge right out of Zayn’s shaking hands.  But no one’s put the Joker away.  Yet.  No one has given Zayn that relief.  And Liam wonders, even after Zayn’s knocked off the Joker, if he’ll ever feel at ease.

Do our nightmares end after we think we’ve killed the beast under our beds?

“And here he is,” Joker squeals, delight all over his wrinkled face, “in the flesh, right?  You are alive, yes, second Boy Wonder?  Or do you like _Robin the sequel_?  I’m quite up to giving you rights to naming your corpse.”

Zayn sucks in a quiet breath.  There’s a neat strain of muscles bulging from his arms as he keeps his hands steady.  Fingers curl and release around his triggers, ready to pull.

Damn Harry Styles and his _need-to-be-a-hero_ syndrome.

“My, oh my, you’re a lot less chatty since our last dance,” Joker mocks.

Zayn’s jaw tightens, if possible, before releasing.  He doesn’t say a thing.  But the squint of his eyes refuses to loosen.

He’s going to kill them both just to have at the Joker.

“No!” Louis shouts.  He’s jiggling the chains, trying to free himself.  All the exasperated movement rewards him with nothing.

And Liam’s too exhausted from producing adrenaline to stand.  It’s a bit shit, but he’s not enough energy to do more than lurch over, dry-heaving at the ground.  His mind feels altered, loosen by whatever drugs the wankers used to get him here, and the world is spinning out of control.

(It was never in control.  He never maintained it.  His life hasn’t been _his_ since his parents’ death.)

“Oh, don’t tell me,” Joker cheers.  “For fuck’s sake―bloody Tomlinson’s offspring has gotten a stiffy over the third Boy Wonder?  Christ.  That’s brilliant.  I mean, could’ve done better, couldn’t have you?  He’s not even―he’s the last film in a trilogy.  The _worst_ one, at that.”

In his ears, Liam can hear Harry struggling.  Trying to pry himself away.  Spouting off words he’ll regret if Joker decides to slit his throat.

Another body in the ground.  One less set of footsteps in that already cold Higgins Manor.

Everyone in Liam’s life dies.  And he’s never able to stop it.

“You’ve got what you want,” Louis barks.  He sounds terribly exhausted, the way Liam feels.  “There he is―the Red Hood.  And me.  You’ve got me.  Just be done with it.”

The Joker wheezes another laugh that seems close to darkness than the others.  “Got it all wrong, junior,” he sighs.  “Y’ say all of it as if there’s a plan.  A scheme.  But some men aren’t in it for a goal.”

Lower, his voice gone grime and antagonizing, the Joker adds, “Some men just want to watch the world _burn_.”

And it’s so familiar in Liam’s ears.  An adage utter a bit too much around these parts.  All of his thoughts center on Zayn.  His means of dealing with situations versus Liam’s.  How they were taught―how Zayn has abandoned the methods of _fight or flight_ for just _fight_.

There’s a thin line of wiring in Liam’s brain that tells him it’s not the life Zayn would’ve _chose_ for himself.

Like Liam, he’s a victim of poor circumstances and timing.

How serendipitous they are, he muses.

“C’mon Robin the sequel,” Joker baits, stretching the knife further up Harry’s skin.  “Shall we tango?”

“I can’t dance,” Zayn mutters, unflinching.

Beyond the constant need to cough up blood or wretch into a bin, Liam grins.  He’s probably minutes out from a coma but he fucking beams at the floor.

He wants to direct it at Zayn―if his body was working properly, that is.

“Christ,” Louis hisses.  “Save him already!”

“Don’t need to,” Zayn sighs, eyes never sliding off Joker.  He licks dryness from his lips.  “Brat’s quite smart.  Got a backup plan, haven’t you?”

Liam’s eyes, heavy and fuzzy, search Harry.  Perched on his pink lips is a round smile.  He’s breathing a bit labored but he seems calm.

 _Accepting_ , Liam thinks, because he knows that resignation fairly well himself.

“And what’s that?” Joker chuckles, tugging roughly at Harry’s hair.  “S’not gonna stop Boy Wonder over there from trying t’ kill me.  It’s in our blood, right?  We _kill_.  We tiptoe over the bridges all these weak twits refuse to.”

Zayn’s fingers curl and release.  Over and over.  Restraint prevents him from pulling the trigger.  His mouth is twitching and Liam can’t haul enough air into his lungs to warn Zayn.

To stop him.

“That’s the thing,” the Joker grins.  “We do what they can’t, mate.  Make the choices they’re too shit to make themselves.”

A tongue darts out to lick at Zayn’s lips.  Curl and release, fingers close to the trigger.

Decidedly, Liam airs on the side of trust.

“So kill, mate,” the Joker petitions.  He’s scraping the blade up and down Harry’s skin, chaffing it pink.  “Let’s do this up proper this time.”  His crowbar is lifted, catching the glare of the fluorescent lighting.

A grating reminder for Zayn.  The monster in his closet.

And, sure as fuck, Zayn looks a tad frightened by it.

Swallowing, Liam exhales.  He’s losing focus again, owlish eyes blinking so wide to keep a center of space that exhausted tears blur everything up again.  But he manages, out of the darkness, to find Zayn.

His heart slowing, Liam is just waiting for Zayn to pull the trigger.

“Do it!” Louis orders.

Harry falters, his nose wrinkling.  The knife nicks his throat, trickling line of blood sliding quickly like a dam overflowing from its barrier.

“Now,” Joker drawls, “shall we teach you to dance?”

In between soft breaths, Zayn spares a look over to Liam.  It’s hardly fleeting.  No, Zayn’s dilated eyes ease back into focus while they trade stares.  A nanosecond gives him away―he’s asking for forgiveness.

And Liam, still chasing the taste of blood out of his mouth, can’t help but agree.

It feels like the last bit of affection he can offer Zayn’s soul.

The clap of the gun rings in Liam’s ears.  It’s like standing too close to a train.  Again, louder, surer.  Two slugs thud at Joker’s shoulder and bicep.

Harry flees, rolling forward in a clumsy move that Paul would scold him over.

A third shot catches Joker’s calf, knocking him off balance and to the floor.  Still alive.  Still laughing like he’s on a rollercoaster and hasn’t yet reached the highest peak before the drop.

His blood runs dark and ugly over the cement floor.  And, above him, Niall brandishes a shotgun trained on Joker’s temple.

“Last I checked, Officer,” Joker starts, smiling, the red smudge around his mouth faded, unlike his blood.

“Detective,” Niall corrects, cocking his weapon.

Unhinged, Joker preens while rolling his eyes.  “Detective,” he says dully, “You can’t assault an unarmed man.”

The crowbar slid somewhere across the ground.  The knife is an inch from Joker’s wiggling fingers; he’s challenging Niall.

And Niall, with his wrinkled nose and mussed dyed hair creating shadows over his blue eyes, doesn’t bite.

“True,” he huffs.  “But I’m shit at studies and don’t know the law as well as me co-workers.  Care to see what I learnt in assault rifle training?”

The Joker flops onto his back, exhaling.  His fresh wounds stain his clothing dark.  There’s bits of sweaty skin starting to show under the fading paint across his face.  He looks thoughtful in only the way he can.

“A wee bit of chaos is all this city needs,” he whispers.

Again, Niall presses his weapon to the Joker’s head.  Now, he’s offering up a challenge.

“And that lad over there,” Joker continues, waving blindly in Zayn’s direction, “will set this place on fire.  I can’t wait.  Oh, my dears, I’m positively licking me chops at it.”

His laugh is a little less taunting this time.  Just an echo, over and over, in Liam’s head.

A victim of timing, it’s what the Joker is.  Poor timing.

Niall calls it in.  Cuffs the Joker, dragging him by his cheap collar away, smearing blood over the ground like a child’s finger-painting.  He gives them a heads up warning, eyeing Liam particularly long with an apologetic smile too small for Liam to return.

“Still up for that pint, lad?” he asks.

Licking dried blood from his lower lip, Liam grins this time.  It hurts.

“Chips and banter, right?”

“And footy,” Niall agrees, cuffing his trench closed.  Roughing up his hair with an errant hand, Niall wrinkles his brow.  “One day, right?”

Liam nods weakly.  He’s twisted and wiggled, popping his shoulder out of place, to get his arms in front, wrists still bound and resting in his lap.

Painfully, he lifts his hands in a shaky manner, offering Niall a thumbs up.

Niall laughs, scratching at his head.  He gives a salute, turning away.

“I’ll tell Calder how brave you were,” Liam calls, soft like it’s a secret between them.

Over his shoulder, Niall blushes like mad but grins.  “Think she’ll buy it?”

“The truth?” Liam asks, upping a chuckle despite how sore his ribs are.  “She’ll be tossing her knickers at you happily, mate.”

Niall groans, flushed like he’s sunburned, shaking his head.  He thanks Liam with a middle finger, shuffling away.  Liam is willing to bet a tenner Niall’s mentally preparing himself to find the bullocks to chat Eleanor up when she does ring him up.

Squaring his shoulders like a proper detective, Niall calls, “Off with you before the beat cops get in, yeah?”

Liam breathes Zayn in before his slow-ticking mind alerts him to Zayn’s presence.  This close, he reeks of gun powder and city smog.  Underneath the layers, its spicy and nicotine.  Herbal shampoo, maybe.  Woodsy musk and Earl Grey.

Comfort, Liam thinks.  His mind sticks to it.

In the corner, Harry is tugging Louis free of the chains.  Laughing as Louis babbles on like a street dweller hopped on booze.  Liam’s vision isn’t good enough to catch a proper view of them but he thinks Louis kisses Harry dry on the lips.

A _thank you_?  Nope.  Louis isn’t capable of gratitude.

At least, not the Tomlinson Liam has pegged for a twat.

But pinning characteristics on people without peeling back the layers is something Liam is trying to quit.

Case in point: the lad knelt next to him, pressing searching hands all across his body.

“Stop,” Liam says weakly, smiling.  “You’re not a doctor.”

“No,” Zayn whispers in return.  He exhales gently, keeping his eyes low.  “But I’m quite used t’ bleeding out everywhere and tending to me own wounds.  Fractured ribs.”

“Bruised jaw,” Liam confirms.  “Dislocated shoulder.”

“Ankle sprain,” Zayn adds, conversationally rather than with that bit of worry most people would carry.  Knitting hearts on a sleeve has never been Zayn’s expertise.

“Concussion?”

“Depends,” Zayn says, finally lifting his head.  There’s tear tread marks down his cheeks.  Liam’s not sure how he hadn’t noticed.  But he’s certain they were frustrated tears.  From holding back.

Zayn’s exhausted from controlling himself; something Liam imagines he does little of these days.

“On what?” Liam asks, his voice shredded.

Slumping, Zayn shakes his head.  “If you remember whether or not I’m arse over tit for you, lad.”

The thing is, when you’re bleeding from places you can’t identify, having your heart swell with excitement isn’t a proper good idea.  In fact, its poor etiquette.

Which is why Liam laughs like a lad gone mental.  It hurts all over, especially in his chest.  Bruises prickle his skin.  And his head swims with the thoughts―

 _Zayn Malik is a ruthless bloke… madly in love with Liam Payne_.

“Can’t be too fussed not to remember that,” Liam says, a little too smiley for his own good, he’ll admit.

Zayn’s forehead presses to Liam’s temple, uncaring.  Louis and Harry can watch.  The whole Gotham police force can raid in on the warehouse, shine an ugly spotlight on them.

But they’re drowning in this moment, fate be damned.

“You could’ve killed him,” Liam mumbles after a long moment.

With a knife, Zayn pries through the wiring binding Liam’s wrists.  Careful fingers rub at the sore areas, his thumbs tracing Liam’s kit to find his heartbeat.

“Could’ve,” Zayn confirms, unleashing his thoughts in a single play of wording.  His thumbs keep moving.  “But wouldn’t get what I want, then.”

“What do you want?”

Silence―a fair amount that’s comfortable and the kind they’re used to―bleeds between them.  There’s a misty rain pouring in from the broken skylight.  Liam takes notice, thoughtfully.  It feels like the rain is always following him.

Liam nuzzles his temple to Zayn’s sweaty skin, savoring.  Zayn doesn’t move away.  It mucks up the rate Liam’s heart is moving, too soft in his ears.

He’s waiting for _‘revenge’_ to slip off Zayn’s mouth.

Once more, predicting people isn’t Liam’s strong suit.

“A second date,” Zayn ushers out.  He sounds knackered, ready to toss it in.

“Hmm?”

Zayn lifts his head, just enough to press his lips over the high point of Liam’s cheekbone.  “A second date,” he repeats, slower.  “Somewhere high and out of sight.  Rooftop?  Curry and beers.  Sit on a ledge and watch the city―”

“Burn?” Liam teases.

“Come to life,” Zayn whispers, knocking his smile over Liam’s cheek.  “Just me and you.”

“Me and you,” Liam echoes, leaning into Zayn’s warmth.  He’s cold from the loss of blood but Zayn keeps him warm.

And _alive_.

Zayn keeps Liam alive.

 

+++

 

**EPILOGUE―Two Years Later**

**Zayn**

 

It’s raining in Venice.  Not that it hardly ever rains in Italy but it’s rare enough that it wakes Zayn from a loose slumber.  Resting on his back, his smiles up at the skylight over the bed.

Plinking in rapid form, the rain lulls him.  It’s never bothered him―not like Liam.  Rain keeps Zayn settled.  Rooted to the ground, he ventures.  There’s something about rain that washes away filth, offers restoration and life to things.

 _Life_.

Zayn’s not known the taste of that word a handful of years back.

Now?

He feels proper alive.  Swimming rather than drowning.  If he’s honest, Zayn feels long washed of sins and the baggage he’s done well enough hauling around with him.  He’s finally stopped clawing his way out of a grave someone dug for him.

Away from Gotham, Zayn feels his lungs are in working order.

It’s still early morning, the dense grey clouds wadding through a violet sky.  A bit after dawn, Zayn reckons.  He watches the rain slide over the box of glass high over his head.  It gives everything in this massive room an indigo glow.

Peaceful.  Gotham was never peaceful.

Next to him, a warm body snuffles into a pillow.  Honey bed-hair sticks up everywhere but Zayn pats it down with a happy hand.  His fingers graze over the scalp, loving the tingle of warmth there.  Always there.  Under his fingers―touchable instead of out of reach.

Zayn bites over his lip.  Red marks from heavy sleep muck up Liam’s cheeks.  Sheets tangled around his torso but smooth stretches of skin still admirable from Zayn’s view.  His tan skin is sleep-warm, the way Zayn fancies.

He’s gotten a bit too used to the cold.  Being alone.

(Honestly, he still wakes at night.  Not for lack of sleep―because he’s accustom to being alone.  Staring at the walls.  He’s still patting at the sheets until he finds Liam’s hand, squeezing too tight like Liam might one day leave him.

But Liam hasn’t fled yet.)

(Zayn thinks that’s a good sign.  At least, for his standards.)

Mumbling in his sleep, Liam scoots closer.  Tosses a muscular thigh over Zayn’s hip, his knee accidentally squishing Zayn’s morning semi.

Perfect.

Zayn doesn’t have the heart to make Liam move.  Instead, he turns, curves until he’s close enough to sniff at Liam’s skin―a bit sour and rank from sleep but still vulnerably sweet and tart, like the lemons in a bowl in the kitchen.

 _Verbena_ , Zayn remembers fondly―the scent in Liam’s shampoo.  And, underneath, a hint of something else.  Something soft, lulling like lavender.

Carefully, Zayn kisses Liam’s knuckles individually.  A reminder, he’s certain, but also because he _can_.

The rain rattles on, growing softer but still insistent.  Blinking away what’s left over from sleep, Zayn watches it.  Zones in on the splatters as they splinter off into tinier drops, making their way down the square pane of glass.  Losing himself in musings he wasn’t afforded before ditching Gotham.

Expectantly, because it’s arse-o’clock-in-the-morning, bare feet pad softly over the hardwood in their bedroom.  They’re quick, like an assassin.  As if the floor’s too cold to bear without loafers on.

Smirking, Zayn turns just in time.  A tiny body struggles and claws, trying to climb up the bed.  With a huff, Zayn reaches out a lazy arm, helps.

“Papa!  Papa!  ‘S morning!  Time f’r tea and toast, yes?”

Stretching until his bones crack in all of the wrong places, Zayn sighs.  He follows it with a yawn, eyes still too heavy to focus on anything in particular.

Well, the exception being the tiny figure scrambling to crawl onto his chest.

His eyes are like honey.  Distinct in a way Zayn wants to describe but can’t.  Toffee hair is a mess of shag and curls.  His skin is nearly olive but weighs on the side of soft gold; tan, like Liam’s.  Tiny fingers make a grabby motion at Zayn’s cheeks and Zayn’s willed into a laugh.

He can’t help it.

“ _Nico_ ,” he moans, shaking his head.  “Have you no respect for a lie-in?”

Nico, with a sloppy pink smile and missing front teeth, shrugs.

“What’s that?”

Zayn hums a long breath, rubbing a hand up Nico’s spine.  He’s forgotten Nico was born in Florence―has never been around Gotham accents before Zayn and Liam.

Had no concept of parents, unfortunately, before Liam shoved an armful of pounds and his trademark smile at the adoption agency (filing legal documents, petitions, hiring lawyers was something they left up to Paddy, of course) to bring Nico home.

“Sleep,” Zayn spells out slowly for Nico, sideways smirk perched on his lips.  “Are you not knackered after staying up last night?”

Guiltlessly, Nico shakes his head.

Zayn snorts, weaving his fingers into Nico’s thick hair.  “Course not,” he murmurs.  “Your Da’ will not be happy we ate up all the biscuits while watching the telly.”

“He’s not happy already,” comes a raspy voice from under the pillows, “since he’s not had any coffee, no thanks to you two.”

Zayn rolls his eyes, permitting Nico to scamper off of him to get closer to Liam.  He shifts with their son, sinking under the sheets, tugging the pillows away to find Liam’s wrinkled face.

Even rumpled and weighed down with sleep, Liam smiles.  Always finds something to be ingloriously happy about.  A reason to inhale and exhale.

Zayn, on his own merit, is finding his footing in the same path.

Nico peppers Liam’s cheeks with wet kisses until Liam springs into life, hauling Nico into his bare chest.  Their son giggles and fights, wildly kicking feet nearly knocking into Zayn’s crotch.

He scoots back, for safety purposes.

“And you ate up all the biscuits after this one went to bed,” Liam says, accusingly.  But there’s softness spread over Liam’s face, as if he can’t stay arsed about it.

Indifferently, Zayn shrugs.  He’ll never confess.  Besides, it’s for the better―even at four-years-old, Nico has a nasty habit of sneaking into the cupboards when no one’s looking.  Finding sweets.  Crap that Liam always tosses in the bin unless Zayn keeps them well hidden.

Zayn was preventing a sugar coma of tremendous size.

Finding the warm space on the bed separating them, Liam twines his fingers loosely with Zayn’s.  Nico is spread out like a starfish across Liam’s chest, smiling sleepily at the world above waking to the rain.  Zayn considers shutting his eyes to the image.

“Need a cuppa?” Liam offers, tossing his spare arm across Nico’s chest to anchor him as he moves about.

Zayn sniffs, lifting his eyebrows.  He feels a bit rough, body pleading for a few more hours rest.  Thankfully, it’s given up all the shakes and disassociation he dealt with those first few months after leaving Gotham.

He’s not forgotten staring at the ceiling for hours, unsure what to do now that he wasn’t patrolling anymore.

Now that he wasn’t shrugging into his Red Hood kit.

Secretly, he knows it was the same for Liam.  Through the night, he could feel Liam shifting about.  Nervous energy vibrating off him.  This need to climb rooftops, protect a city under his fingertips.  Chase down clues.  Fill the gaps of space between twilight and morning light with _anything_ rather than sleep.

Zayn’s solution?  It started with blowjobs―Liam’s knees boxing Zayn’s head in the most indecently obscene way―or Liam licking out Zayn’s hole until his jaw went numb.  Shagging quietly and roughly for a few.  Liam laughing into Zayn’s mouth, knees to his chest, Zayn wheezing for a breath while the soft clutch of Liam’s arshole milked an orgasm out of Zayn.

Afterwards, lethargic kisses and banter until they were too knackered to do anything but fall asleep in their sweat and drying come.

Liam’s answer?  Pull Zayn in tight.  Kiss his temples.  Whisper about finally feeling sorted.

Finally having a life no longer haunted by ghosts.  Paul Higgin’s ghost, in particular, Zayn knows.

“Gonna ring up Nialler today?” Zayn asks, blinking down at their hands.

At Nico’s bare feet.

Anywhere but Liam’s considerably thoughtful face.

“Possibly,” Liam replies, his voice still groggy.  “He’s probably out like a log, I reckon.  Still getting his bearings now that he’s yanking on Batman’s boots.”

Zayn nods.  It’s another change since Gotham―Liam leaving Niall the Cave.  All of its properties.  Giving Niall the cape and cowl to do with it as he willed.  Trusting Niall to be the brilliant detective Liam suspects he is.

Letting Niall have a crack at a dream he’s not too goofy to admit out loud.

“Good lad,” Zayn mumbles, appreciating the sweep of Liam’s thumb across his knuckles, “that one.”

In a corner of his vision, Zayn can spot Liam grinning, pleased.  Because Zayn had not trusted Niall, at first.  Never trusts any cop out of Gotham’s gutter.  But Niall is a good sort.  Loves a good lager and talking shit over telly programs.  Laughs too loudly at everything.  Fancies Eleanor in a way that’s not twisted―it’s decidedly gentle.  Looks after Liam―something Zayn fought jealousy over for a bit.

(He’s not possessive but―Liam has always been _his_ to look after.  But he’ll share that with Niall, for Liam’s sake.)

“And Haz?”

Liam sighs, sputtering a laugh.  “Texted him before bed,” he grins.  “Told him he better buckle down for his studies rather than,” Liam’s hands come up quickly to cup over Nico’s ears, “ _dicking_ about with Tomlinson.”

Nico squirms, giggling.  Liam hugs him closer, mashing his mouth into Nico’s loose curls.  After a beat, and Zayn’s calm hand settling over Nico’s belly, Nico breathes easy.

Not quite sleep but halfway to an in-between.

“He’s done good?  The brat?”

Again, Liam’s mouth flops into an unnecessary grin.  Zayn mocks it, briefly.  Liam’s not bothered by it, considering wrinkles folding into his brow.

“Finished A levels like a pro,” Liam hums, half of his words mumbled into Nico’s hair.  “No shock there, right?”  Zayn doesn’t respond but raises his eyebrows just for Liam to continue.  “Top of his year, that one.  Fine form for a―” Zayn thinks to insert brat but he’s not ready for a row with Liam over name-calling, “―a bloke quite obsessed with crime fighting.”

“And wanking off over his boyfriend,” Zayn adds, discreet but none too quietly.

Liam frowns.  Worried brow sets into familiar motion―his face always gets that way when Zayn is _inappropriate_ , so he calls it, in front of Nico―before Liam sets about smacking Zayn’s hand.  An insistent reprimand.

“Don’t be rubbish,” he hisses.

Zayn rolls his eyes, lips cuffing up into a smile.  Nico stirs, trading sleepy looks between his fathers.  It’s oddly curious, like they were as children.

Out of a need Zayn hadn’t recognized before, he shuffles closer to watch Nico.  The way his ruddy mouth parts to breathe, blinking away drowsiness when he looks up at the skylight again.

“And Tomlinson is not his boyfriend,” Liam quips, an afterthought.  “He’s just―”

“Tommo is far too busy,” Zayn interrupts, almost laughing.  “All the work he’s putting into the orphanage―”

Across from him, Liam smirks freely.  They’ve had a laugh at it before―Louis Tomlinson, ex-mob heir turned charitable Gotham citizen.

And in the dark, Zayn’s smiled to himself knowing Louis took over his territory.  Used dirty money to restore Zayn’s old home.  Rebuilt a part of the city, siphoning the ugly from the landscape to make one bit of a crumbling city beautiful again.

“―but I’m sure he fancies the brat every bit that Haz likes him.”

“Yeah,” Liam exhales.  Wrinkles soften in his brow.  “They’re a terrible match.”

“Horrible,” Zayn agrees, laughing.

Nico stirs, blinking owlishly at nothing.  Then, after Zayn rubs at his belly, sinks back into his calm.

His favorite spot: on Liam’s chest, with Zayn touching at least one part of his body.

Half-turning to face Zayn, Nico lays with his cheek pressed to his open palm.  He looks weirdly curious.  Always does.  Zayn can’t get over that bit―amongst many things, he supposes.

“Read to me lat’a, Papa?” Nico requests.  Nico, who has been troubling over his R’s lately while speaking, looking shy and vulnerable whenever Liam corrects him.

Thoughtlessly, Zayn grins.  Trails his fingers up into that mop of disarray that is Nico’s hair.  “Course,” he nods, mulling it all over.

They’re partway through the beginning of the Order of the Phoenix―Liam’s favorite in the series.  And Zayn has taken to affecting different voices for the characters in the book―even if Liam takes the piss when they’re in the shower together, later.

(Zayn returns the teasing with a finger in Liam’s arse, after―forcing Liam to beg for more with his face in a pillow and knees spread.)

Nico returns to form.  Snuggles into the tickling hairs on Liam’s chest.  Folds his hands over his chest and watches the rain.  Drifts into the slowness of it all.

“Paddy’s coming for a popover,” Liam whispers, turning his head.

Zayn studies the lines around Liam’s eyes―from laughter instead of a lack of sleep.  His jaw riddled with stubble.  This infectious youth pouring off Liam.

He’s not a shell of Paul Higgins; not one bit.

“A proper holiday?  I can’t picture it,” Zayn teases.

Liam does his best to shrug, still casting an arm around Nico like protection.  Like he can’t let their son scramble too far.

(Zayn remembers that―curling up in Nico’s tiny twin bed at night, clutching the boy while he slept.  Not that Nico minded one bit, but Zayn didn’t let up until Liam _forced_ him to.  Because it felt like his duty.  To protect things in his life.

He’d never had nice things before Paul.  So he’s learned to keep them fiercely in his possession.)

(In hindsight, he’s done the same with Liam, in his own morbid way, he supposes.)

“Y’know,” Liam drags, sleepily, “A bit back, he told me every year, since I went off for uni, he’d picture me having a life.  A _proper one_ , let him tell it.  He’d find me, on holiday, while having a finger of whiskey and we’d chat.”

Zayn watches Liam looking down at Nico.  In the weak sputter of morning light, something shines down Liam’s cheeks.

It takes Zayn more than a second to recognize why the tears are there.

“He said he wanted me to stay away from Gotham,” Liam chokes but he’s smiling.  The tip of his nose has gone pink.  “To have a life, with children, and a partner.  And that’d be his happiness.  He’d feel like he’d done good for me if I had that.  Says he never got that feeling for Paul.”

Zayn nuzzles closer―it’s all instinct, his brain reminds him―and squeezes Liam’s fingers harder.

“A fortnight ago,” Liam struggles, “he rung me up.  The old sod just wanted to hear me voice.  And he knew, by the way I chatted him up, that he’d done good by me, after all.”

Tears and wet laughter―two things Zayn hasn’t adjusted to with Liam.

The lad is emotional but not recklessly.  Nothing from Liam Payne comes without merit.  Without resolute fight.  He’s not spilled tears, in front of Zayn.  Certainly not happy ones.

It should not be this easy for Zayn to sink.  Or, rather, he should be accustom to this feeling around Liam.  But it always surprises him.  The rich texture of affection that lathers his insides and leaves him speechless.

Across from him, Liam’s teeth show with how massive he smiles.

“Fancy some tea and toast?”

“And bother this bugger?” Zayn says with a laugh and too much adoration choking up his voice as he pats their son’s head.  “Couldn’t imagine.”

Liam nods in agreement.  But his arm goes slack around Nico to grab at Zayn’s shoulder.

Zayn answers the call, hesitation nothing his body recognizes.  He climbs in, settles a quick kiss to Liam’s lips.  It goes on, predictably, turning soft and endless.  A bit like that time in the diner―but with more precision.

They’ve not a point to prove to each other―but Zayn and Liam kiss like they do.

“Takeaway later?” Liam offers.

Zayn groans, right into Liam’s mouth, trying to fight off a grin.  “There’s not a good place ‘round here to find fantastic curry and kebabs.”

“We’ll find a place,” Liam says, like always.  Repeats until Zayn doesn’t bristle so much over it.  Liam is a sick genius at that―convincing Zayn of things he doesn’t believe in.

Nico stirs, mumbling sweetly, “Ti amo.”

Liam’s the first to pull back, tear smudges down his face and with a wrinkled nose.  He pecks a kiss to the crown of Nico’s head.  Zayn follows the motion with his own.

“He’s gotten on well with his English and Italian, yeah?”

Liam nods, looking up through dark eyelashes.  “He’s got a bright life ahead of him.”

It’s funny―he’s heard those words from Paul, when he was a wee bit, his first few nights in the manor.  They don’t sting now like they did then.  Zayn didn’t believe them then.

“So do you,” he whispers to Liam, taking note of how Liam’s listing back towards sleep.

Liam mumbles something, half-Italian, half-gibberish that Zayn doesn’t pick up on.

He doesn’t need to, though.  Liam squeezing around his fingers and dropping his temple onto the arc of Zayn’s collarbone seems nearly enough.

So Zayn settles into the sheets.  Pulls until Nico is nestled between them.  He keeps a hand on Nico’s belly, his other in Liam’s palm.  Before, he didn’t know _how_ to sleep.  After the Joker, he didn’t _want_ to sleep.

When Liam tucks a kiss to his throat, Zayn can’t help but become a victim to the peace sleep offers.

For a while, he listens to Liam snore; Nico’s slow breaths.  Zayn exhales, very aware that the smile on his face is making the corners of his eyes pinch in that way pups get when they’re happy.

He’s _survived_.  Life in Gotham kicked him, put him beneath the dirt, hauled his tiny arse across muck and gravel.

And Zayn survived.

Tucking his head to snuffle Liam with his nose, Zayn listens to the rain peter on.

He loves the rain.

And life… well, he’s sorting that out breath by breath, with the lad he’s been in love with since day one.

 

 

 _“Love is how you stay alive, even after you are gone.”_  
**Mitch Albom**

**Author's Note:**

> What an adventure this has been!
> 
> You wouldn't believe the endless amounts of hours, tea, pens, Red Bull, and tears put into this one fic. At the end of the day, I hope it's worth it. I know I've been out of the fic-saddle for quite a bit and I hope my change in style (or lack of an ability to write like I once could) isn't too off-putting. I did my best to retain some of who I used to be while finding newer parts of myself.
> 
> Seriously, thank you for all the love I've gotten on all my fics over the past few years! _You_ might not get enough credit, but this fandom deserves a standing ovation for being supportive toward the creative mind. This little fella feels so lucky to have been welcomed into your world!
> 
> I'm temporarily back on Tumblr ([x](http://jmcats.tumblr.com))... but if anything, I read _every single comment_ posted on my fics. I also appreciate the hits, the kudos, the rec lists I'm on... **all of it!** Maybe I'll be back for more?


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